Lights and Sirens
by archerlove
Summary: The Saints are tying up loose ends in Boston when things get complicated. Set three months after the first movie. Chapter 48, Shattered, is now up.
1. Scuderi

**[Chapter 1: Scuderi]**

"We're in luck – looks like he's working late tonight," Connor MacManus said, easing the Ford LTD to the curb under the spindly branches of a leafless maple. "See him? Second floor of that brownstone, corner window."

Drizzling rain and partially open Venetian blinds reduced Murphy's view of the office into blurry stripes of shadow and light. A long, dark table and surrounding high-backed chairs occupied most of the space that could be seen. Stacks of files covered the table and further obstructed the view.

"Where do you see him?" Murphy asked. "Those chairs are all empty."

"There's a desk in the back right corner, behind that big ugly plant."

Murphy leaned forward and wiped at the condensation on the windshield.

Behind a huge desk a dark figure was visible, partially hidden by a monstrous potted plant. The glow of a computer monitor reflected on greasy black hair. Good chance it was a man. Beyond that, identification was impossible.

Murphy was about to say so when headlights lit up the car from behind.

"Shit," Connor said, his eyes on the driver's side mirror.

Murphy couldn't see anything but the lights in the rear-view. "What? What is it?"

"Cruiser."

Murphy held his breath as a two-toned sedan pulled alongside.

The car slowly closed in, then passed, picking up speed as it cruised under a streetlight. Murphy realized the contrasting paint colors weren't black and white, but some brown and tan combination and it was the hood that was lighter, not the doors.

"Get a handle on the paranoia, would you?" Murphy said, watching Connor's face register the mistake.

"So I'm a bit wired, so what."

"Nervous?"

"Alert. Ready for anything-do you hear that?"

Low, muffled voices sounded nearby. Murphy caught a sudden movement out his window and froze. Two men in dark rain jackets were outside, hoods pulled low over their faces. Murphy's Beretta pressed hard and heavy against his ribs from the cradle of his shoulder holster. Connor's hand slipped from the steering wheel and inched under his own jacket.

The hooded men moved on, heading toward the bus stop on the corner. Murphy watched them all the way. The one on the right had an even, controlled gait. The man on the left was about fifty pounds heavier and lagged a half-step behind, pausing every few steps to hike up his sagging pants and - maybe it was Murphy's imagination – to look up at the corner office window.

The men disappeared into the small shelter of the bus stop. Connor let out a breath that carried the smallest chuckle. "Me nervous? I thought you were gonna piss yourself."

"At least I can tell the difference between a panda and piece of crap beater."

"It's dark."

Murphy smiled. Darkness was usually his problem, not Connor's. He rolled his neck, trying to ease the tension already taking hold. Something didn't feel right. Something about the way the hooded men didn't seem anxious to get out of the rain.

He glanced back up at the muddled figure in the office, trying to ignore his growing unease. "You're sure it's him," he said to Connor. "Not one of his ass-kissing paralegals staying late to impress the boss?"

Connor shook his head very slightly. "Typing on Scuderi's computer in his private office?"

"I'm just saying, let's be sure."

Connor switched on the wipers, clearing the view for a few seconds. There was a slight glare on the windshield, coming from the store on their right. It was a Quickie Dry Cleaners that was closed according to the sign on the door, but that still had some interior lights glowing dimly through the plate glass window. Hard to tell if there was anyone left inside.

They were four blocks from the courthouse, and the majority of offices and stores in the area directly or indirectly supported the crime and punishment business. Most were closed for the night. Other than the two men at bus stop, the street was deserted.

Murphy cut his eyes back to the corner office. Scuderi, if that was really him, hadn't moved from the desk. Every so often he'd appear to thumb through a file, then go back to his slouch in front of the computer.

Connor glanced at Murphy, gave a barely audible sigh and ran the wipers again. As they watched, the man finally rose and crossed in front of the window, leaving the blinds swinging in his wake.

"It's him," Connor said. "You can tell by the swagger. The Scuderi Strut, they call it. Even alone in his office at ten o'clock he walks like an arrogant jerk."

"You've never seen him strut," Murphy reminded him. "Just that cocky smile on the news, every time he weaseled Papa Joe out of another conviction."

"We've seen him in person. You remember."

"Aye, but he wasn't strutting then. He was ducking under a table, shaking in his three-hundred dollar shoes."

Suddenly the blinds parted and the man peered outside, staring directly at them. Murphy slouched back in his seat instinctively.

Connor cracked a smile. "He can't see us here in the dark, pussy."

"Can't hear us either, asshole, so why are you whispering?"

Connor was sitting very still, but he moved his hand just enough to give Murphy the finger.

The man remained at the window. Then suddenly he hunched over. The blinds pitched and twirled. Something whitish caught the light – an avalanche of manila from one of the high backed chairs.

"What the…?"

When the blinds quit swinging, Murphy could see him doubled over in the chair. He shrugged out of his suit jacket, standing finally to get it off. He loosened his tie, then stilled for a moment, seeming to struggle with the buttons on his shirt.

"I hope this isn't going to be a full show," Connor said. "I don't think I could watch it sober."

"What the hell is he doing?"

The man gave up on the buttons and raised an arm to lean against the glass, revealing a dark circle under his arm.

"Look at him, he's sweatin' buckets," Murphy said.

"Maybe he's afraid the Saints are coming for him."

"Maybe someone poisoned him and cheated us out of the job."

"There's actually a decent chance of that," Connor said, "Not poisoning, but-"

"Copy cats, I know."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

The man turned around and leaned his back against the window, pressing the blinds flat behind him and blocking their view. His shadow slid lower and lower, and then the blinds swung free again.

"Is he on the floor?"

"Can't tell…there he is - at the desk again. On the phone, looks like. But now he's got the phone to his ear and his head down _on_ the desk. I think it's time someone put ol' Scud out of his misery."

The tree they were parked under was dripping fat drops of rain onto the roof of the LTD and Connor's fingers drummed to the rhythm on the steering wheel. He looked at Murphy with raised brows.

Murphy reached over him and switched on the wipers again.

"It's _him_, Murphy! What do you want, to see a picture ID?"

"Don't give me your shit, Con. We can't be wrong about this."

Connor rested his elbows on the armrests, eyes focused on the office window, fingers no longer tapping. When two minutes passed and there was no movement in the office, he spoke, his voice low. "This is as clear as it's going to get. You want a better view, we're gonna have to get wet."

Murphy took a breath, not able to shake the feeling that something wasn't right. "We're gettin' wet either way. Pull around so we can take the alley."

Connor keyed the ignition and angled out, not switching on the headlights until they passed the bus stop on the corner. The benches were empty. Murphy found himself scanning the shadows for dark hooded figures.

Behind the brownstone, the back alley was dark and narrow. Black water streamed from the two-story roof and splashed onto dumpsters and broken asphalt. Connor pulled up past the entrance to the side alley before cutting the engine. No one would see their car pass the alley when they left.

The rain began to pick up as they sat there in the dark making their final preparations. It pounded on the roof and on the hood. It was the kind of rain that, on a different night, in a different place, could have lulled Murphy to sleep. Tonight it seemed like a warning, a foreboding omen. After all they'd been through, it wasn't an easy feeling to dismiss. He glanced at Connor. If his brother heard the warning too, he gave no indication. Murphy could barely make out Connor's frown of concentration as he pulled on black leather gloves.

Murphy pulled his own gloves from his coat pocket. He slid them on, then made a fist and flexed his fingers, shoving his trigger finger as deeply and tightly as he could into the leather.

Connor had his hand on the door handle, waiting. Murphy nodded, and they both stepped out into the rain.

The puddles were deep, and getting deeper. His feet found more than one hidden pothole as they splashed up the alley. They began by hugging the wall, but soon realized that neither building had any overhang and attempting to stay dry was pointless. They stopped where the alley opened to the plaza and looked up at the corner office window. Only the blinds, the underside of the table and chairs, and the ceiling were visible from the low angle.

Connor crossed his arms, leaning his back against the wall and keeping his eyes on the window. "Once he shuts off the lights, we'll probably have about three minutes. He has to walk past this alley to get to his car."

Murphy drew his Beretta and checked the clip, though he'd checked it twice already. "I didn't see a car."

"There was a tree between us, but I still don't know how you could miss it," Connor said. "In the daytime it'd block out the sun." He nodded toward a massive black Hummer parked several spots ahead of the one they'd just vacated, directly in front of a fire hydrant.

"That's not a car. That's a tank."

"And his license reads A-Q-T."

Murphy grimaced. "_Acquit._ What a dick."

"His ego's even bigger than his car. That's got to be him."

Murphy was out of arguments. He glanced up at the window, expecting Scuderi to appear and prove Connor right. "Okay, fine. I'm sold."

Connor gave him a long look, then drew his gun and checked the clip, sheltering it from the rain with his body. "I'm not aiming to sell you, Murph. If it ain't both of us ready for this, we bail. Period. It doesn't have to happen tonight."

"I am ready, Con. I've been ready for three months."

"Then what's your problem?"

Murphy shook his head. "Forget it," he said, not even sure there was a problem, much less that he could explain it.

Connor sighed and rubbed his temples. "What is it?" he asked, "Those guys at the bus stop-" He stopped, turning his head slightly to the side.

Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed. For a few seconds all they could do was listen. The rain diluted the sound and the high walls bounced it around so that it was impossible to tell where it was coming from. But it was definitely getting louder. Closer.

Doubt and denial flooded Murphy's mind, fueled by the earlier scare—the scare that had turned out to be completely groundless. No way could the police be after them already. Who could have called them? What was there even to report? He felt foolish suddenly, absurdly paranoid. Probably there'd been an accident. People always drove too fast in the rain.

They were still standing there in the downpour, silently debating, when lights appeared out of nowhere, flashing on the falling drops and jerking Murphy's heart so far up into his throat he nearly choked.

They turned simultaneously, tearing back down the alley towards the car. Halfway there, Connor lost his footing in a flooded pothole and went down hard into the water. Murphy swore and hauled him up, glancing hurriedly behind them. Red and white lights were swinging madly across the walls of the alley, but their source had stopped moving. Red and white, Murphy thought. But not blue. He stepped sideways to get a better view and confirmed his suspicion. It was an ambulance.

"What are you doing?" Connor hissed.

"It's not the police," Murphy said, pulling him to where he could see. "Look. It's just docs."

They watched two uniformed paramedics haul a gurney from the back of the ambulance and wheel it towards the building's entrance.

"Damn," Connor said with a glance at the office window. "The bastard really is sick."

Slowly, cautiously, they tiptoed closer to the lights, curiosity replacing panic. The paramedics disappeared into the first floor lobby.

"That's who he was calling," Connor muttered, resting against the wall again. "Friggin' 9-1-1." He gripped a hand around his upper arm and slid it down the sleeve, squeezing a gush of water from the soaked wool.

Murphy was suddenly aware of the weight of his own water-logged coat. "This sucks," he said. "I say we don't try this again until the weatherman start spoutin' good news."

"Hey now, nobody said it was over yet."

"Connor, he called them for a reason – he's probably having a damn heart attack! What do you want to do, off him when they bring him out on the stretcher?"

Connor glanced at his watch. "We don't know anything for sure. Could be they're just gonna give him a few aspirin."

"You're kidding, right?"

Connor peeked around the corner, then glanced above them to the office. "Let's just wait and see. If they leave without him…" He looked at Murphy, smiling a little behind his mask.

Murphy sighed heavily. He leaned against the wall and tried not to think about being cold and wet. Unlike his brother he had no delusions about salvaging the plan. Scuderi had managed to weasel an extension on his fate tonight.

But it wouldn't be indefinite.

A metallic clank and rattle and the sound of voices carried from around the corner. The paramedics came into view. The taller one led the way to the still-idling ambulance with one hand pulling the gurney behind him. The man from the office – Scuderi he told himself – was strapped to it, trying to turn his face from the pummel of rain drops. A black briefcase lay on his lap and he clutched it with both hands. The second paramedic, a woman with a blond ponytail, spoke quietly to him while she pushed from behind.

"Goddamn it," Connor muttered.

"Told you."

Connor shot him a dirty look. "You're going to gloat now? You're happy to be right about this?"

"Doesn't happen all that often. Got to take what I can get."

Connor pushed off the wall, kicking water at Murphy as he started for the car.

They'd gone only a few steps when they heard the woman's scream.

Murphy's eyes met Connor's and this time there was no hesitation. In an instant they were crouched at the brownstone's corner.

Murphy couldn't believe how quickly the scene had changed. He recognized the dark hoods immediately. They'd been hidden in the shadows after all.

One of them crushed a hand over the woman's mouth. She kicked wildly and tore at the black gloves to no avail. The heavier one held a large black pistol to her partner's back. The medic raised his hands defensively. Scuderi writhed violently on the gurney, trying to free himself from the straps over his chest and legs.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," Murphy breathed, drawing his gun.

Connor's was already in his hand.

They moved forward together, pausing behind a low planter twenty feet away.

The woman stopped struggling and lowered her hands, reaching for something on her belt.

"Oh, no you don't," her attacker snarled, yanking her head back roughly by her ponytail. He ripped a hand-held radio from her grasp and lobbed it into the darkness. "You won't be needing that," he said, and then whispered something into her ear that Murphy couldn't hear.

Her eyes went wide and she nodded, sinking to her knees on the wet concrete. He crouched and pulled her arms behind her.

"This doesn't feel like a mugging," Connor said. "Bastard's tying her up."

"What the hell _is_ this?" Murphy wondered aloud as the fat man spun the gray-haired medic around to face his patient.

"Tie his hands to the rails," the fat man ordered, tossing what looked like plastic cable ties onto Scuderi's chest.

"Don't," Scuderi croaked, clutching one hand around his briefcase and weakly waving the other out of reach. "Don't. I'll sue your ass. You'll be an accomplice-"

The fat man shoved something into Scuderi's mouth. "Tie his hands," he ordered again, jabbing the gun hard into the medic's back. "Do it, now!"

"Our drugs are in the bus," the medic said, hesitating. "The key's in my left pocket."

The fat man laughed hoarsely, then leaned closer, lifting the gun to the medic's temple. "Do you really think we're here for your fucking morph?" The medic's back stiffened. He looked at the woman, on her knees with her wrists bound behind her, and his face filled with fear.

"Leah!" he shouted.

"John, don't-"

John ducked away from the gun and dug an elbow into the fat man's side. But the fat man struck back with surprising speed, the crack of his gun's handle against the medic's skull hard enough to send him crumpling to the ground without even raising a hand to brace his fall. He lay motionless on the wet concrete.

"No!" Leah screamed. Her attacker was on her in a flash, forcing her down with a knee on her back, growling something into her ear.

Shifting his weight, Connor inched out of the shadows. "I don't know what the hell these guys are after," he said quietly, "but we need to move before somebody gets killed. I've got this scumbag. You take the fatty."

Murphy scanned the plaza. It was too open, he realized, and they were much too far away. He closed one eye, testing his aim, and the bodies blurred together. "We can't go from here," he said. "Not as one. They'll use the woman as a shield."

"Then circle around, find some cover."

"What cover? A parking meter? We should take them out from here, but…" He paused while necessity warred with his pride. "I can't make a good shot from this distance-it's too dark," he said, the admission coming out harder than he intended. "Can you take them both?"

Connor looked at him, his eyes unreadable behind his mask. He turned back to the unfolding drama for a long moment. The woman, Leah, had been hauled to her feet and handed off to the fat man. He was holding her close in front of him, taunting her while she strained to turn her face away from his gun.

"Not both," Connor said finally. "One for sure, but…once the first round's fired, that girl's a goner. I can't line up two clean shots that fast, not while she's so close."

Frustration flamed inside Murphy. "I'm sorry, Con, I-"

Connor elbowed him and pointed to the far side of the plaza. "There's your cover."

"The fire hydrant?"

"To the right a bit. Straight across from here, behind the gurney."

Murphy saw it now – a UPS drop box not far from where John the paramedic lay unconscious. It was the standard dark brown, hardly visible except when the ambulance's red strobe flashed on the wet metal.

"Got it. Don't move in 'til I take him down. And keep an eye on Scuderi. Remember, we don't exactly look like law enforcement."

Connor nodded grimly. "Be quick."

The first hooded man stood over the gurney now. "Eugene, Eugene," the man said in a dangerously playful tone. He pushed the barrel of a small silver gun into the soft flesh under Scuderi's chin. The lawyer lay absolutely still.

Murphy took a breath and stood up. It was only about thirty paces away directly, but to stay out of sight he'd have to circle around, along the wall of the dry cleaners, then come back up from the street.

"Eugene," the hooded man continued, his voice almost singsong, "you seem to be having a rough night. Feeling a little…under the weather?" He laughed at his own joke. "It's a bitch, I know – being the only one, the keeper of all the secrets. Terrible for the blood pressure."

Murphy strained to listen in as he stepped carefully through the water, taking larger than normal strides to make as little splash as possible. That Scuderi had enemies ready to kill him wasn't much of a surprise, but this didn't sound like a simple victim's revenge.

He was over halfway now, nearing the dry cleaners. The back room light was still on inside. There was still no sign of life, but Murphy took no chances, moving as quickly as he could past the plate glass window.

Scuderi grunted and thrashed on the gurney.

"Shh, shh…." The hooded man placed a gloved hand on the gag. "I'm sorry you won't get to make your full confession, but I do have a question for you, and it's an important one, so please think carefully before you answer. Can you do that for me?"

Scuderi squirmed, upsetting his briefcase, but the hooded man steadied it before it could fall.

"Concentrate, Eugene, because I'm only going to ask you once."

At last Murphy reached the box. He went down on one knee and peeked around it. On the far side of the gurney the fat man still held his gun to Leah's head. The hooded man looming over Scuderi was closer, and therefore the target of Murphy's attack. Oblivious to Murphy's presence, he leaned forward to remove the rag from Scuderi's mouth. John lay awkwardly on the concrete in front of Murphy.

_Please let this work_ Murphy prayed, and slipped around the box.

The hooded man's voice carried across the plaza. "Where are the files?"

One step, two steps, quietly, now….

_Crash_.

Four heads spun in his direction. The crash came again, followed by a voice, "Medic six-one, what is your status?" It was John's radio.

The hood whipped his weapon around, but Murphy was faster.

"Drop it," Murphy said, heart thundering against his ribs. "And let the girl go."

Scuderi yelled for help, though his weakened voice didn't carry far. Leah's mouth was covered, her face tight with fear. Murphy realized with a pang of regret that all she would see was another masked man with a gun.

The hood kept his weapon pointed at Murphy. "You crashed the wrong party, asshole," he said, then turned slightly to his partner, keeping his eyes on Murphy. "If he shoots, kill her."

"I wouldn't do that," Connor's voice rang out. The first man threw back his hood and looked around furiously.

The fat man spun toward Connor's voice. "Who the fuck's going to stop me?" he yelled, apparently hoping Connor would respond and give himself away.

But there was only the sound of the rain.

Murphy smiled. Connor was hidden in the shadows, but his aim would be expertly trained on the fat man.

The hood gave up on the gag and squeezed Scuderi's throat to shut him up.

"That's close enough," he said to Murphy.

Murphy took another step. "I'll tell you once more, and then I'll put a bullet in your head. Let the woman go."

"I said don't come any closer!" The hood looked around quickly. Connor was still out there somewhere. "Look," he said more calmly, "I'm only here for the lawyer. No one else has to get hurt."

"Bit late for that, isn't it? You forgetting you left a body over here?"

The man frowned at the unconscious medic then threw a glare at his partner. "I need Scuderi," he said. "No one else matters."

"Then the girl can walk away," Connor said, his voice closer now, directly opposite Murphy.

Murphy squinted into the shadows, his focus thrown by the pulsing sparkle of emergency lights on the falling rain.

_Directly opposite Murphy_.

With a stab of panic he realized what they'd done.

Instinct screamed at him to move, to get out of the path of Connor's shot. His brother's aim was good, but not infallible. As for his own skill – in the light of day he and Connor were a close match. The dark of night was another story.

The problem was he didn't know which direction to move. He took a slow step forward and cocked his weapon for effect—he'd never take the shot blind and risk hitting Connor.

"Back off!" the hood spewed.

Leah whimpered, struggling feebly against the fat man's grip.

Murphy spoke with all the authority he could muster, praying for Connor to clear his background. "Enough with the bullshit! Tell your man to turn her loose. Now."

"BACK THE FUCK OFF!"

The hood's fury echoed off the walls and that's when Murphy heard it - a tinny jingle, coming from the direction of the dry cleaner's. It was a bell, the kind attached to a store's front door to announce when people were entering. Or leaving.

_Oh no._

There was no time – no time to warn or to flee. Steeling his resolve, he ignored the instinct to look. A distraction was his only chance. The hood's expression tweaked just a bit-possibly confusion at Murphy's lack of response. Murphy waited. The seconds crawled. Then–-shuffling footsteps, a faint gasp. A horrified scream. The hood's eyes flitted toward the sound and Murphy had his opportunity.

He hit low, diving under the outstretched arm before the hood could squeeze off a round. They slammed into the gurney. It tipped onto two wheels, then crashed to the ground with Scuderi still attached. The man was stronger than Murphy'd expected, and with the rain slicking his leather gloves as well as trying to keep hold of his own weapon, it was no easy task to pin him down. Finally, he got a fistful of the man's jacket and forced it up over his face so his stomach was exposed and his arms were locked above him. He smashed the man's hand against the railing until the silver pistol slipped from his grasp.

As he shifted to raise the Beretta, a swirl of black ink on white skin caught his eye. It was only the tip of a devil's tail, the last half-inch of a tattoo that appeared to wrap along the ribs from the back, but there was something familiar about it.

"Nice tat," he said, squinting to see the rest.

The hood growled and the next thing Murphy knew, he was flying, then slamming into concrete. Stars exploded behind his eyes.

Dimly he heard the anonymous screaming grow hysterical. Connor and the fat man shouted over it. John's radio beeped and squawked, unanswered.

A knee crushed his chest. Murphy tried to roll him off but couldn't get the leverage. Somehow the hood got a lock on his right arm and bent back his wrist until it was dangerously close to snapping. The Beretta splashed to the ground. The hood stretched to reach it and Murphy slammed his freed fist into his jaw.

Three shots rang out—successive. Loud. Not from a silencer—not from Connor's gun. Something heavy splashed nearby.

Murphy's heart stopped. With every ounce of remaining strength, he shoved the hooded man off him. He scrambled to his feet, cursing the dark and rain. Leah sprinted past him with her wrists still bound and fell to her knees next to John. The fat man lay sprawled on his back, his mouth and eyes open lifelessly beneath the black mask. At the far corner of the plaza, lit by the dim glow of the dry cleaner's window, a body lay crumpled in a heap, wrapped in a shiny green raincoat. Darkness seeped from under it, fading as it spread in the wash of rain.

In the center of it all, barely distinguishable from the shadows, stood Connor. His gun was still drawn. It was pointed at Murphy.

Murphy heard a chuckle behind him as something hard touched his temple. Anger flamed in him, mostly at himself. How stupid to get distracted for the most self-sufficient person he'd ever known.

"Drop it!" Connor commanded.

"You first," said the hood, gripping Murphy by the neck.

"Maybe I wasn't clear. Drop the gun or I'll drop your fucking ass on the pavement like I did your fat friend."

Murphy glanced at the fat man's body, nearly forty feet from where Connor stood. It was a hell of a shot. The hood's grip tightened on the back of his neck. "Do it, then. But your boy dies first." There was a dull click against his skull.

Connor held his aim for a long moment.

Murphy gritted his teeth. _Don't surrender, Connor. Not to this motherfucker._

Connor raised his hands slowly, palms open, gun pointing to the sky.

Without meaning to, Murphy shook his head in protest. He caught a glimpse of the gun jabbing his face-it was black, not silver. It was his own gun! Which meant the hood's was still on the ground only a few feet away. He kept his head still, moving only his eyes to scan the puddles around the gurney.

He saw the silver handle as Scuderi's hand closed around it. The barrel swung up and he dove sideways, knowing if the shot were meant for him it was all over.

Shots rang out as he splashed down. Ignoring the pain in his elbow and side, he looked up at the hooded man. Still standing. Scuderi had missed them both, but he wasn't through trying.

The spit of silencers filled the air and Scuderi's body jerked back and forth as Connor and the hood rained bullets on him from both sides. Scuderi choked, sinking to his knees before a final shot from Connor sent him face-first into the water.

A siren wailed. Gun still raised and now aimed at Connor, the hooded man looked down on Scuderi. "_Fuck!_" he swore. Out of nowhere, a car screeched to the curb. It was the two-toned beater.

"Go," a soft voice urged. Leah was crouched next to John, bound hands clutching her partner's radio, her eyes imploring as Murphy struggled to his feet. The hooded man backed towards the street, tripping twice but never lowering his gun.

The sirens were closing in.

"Come on!" Murphy shouted to Connor, who was sending a shower of bullets through the beater's rear window as it peeled away. Murphy yanked him toward the alley.

Connor slowed for a moment as they passed Leah, now kneeling next to Scuderi's blood-soaked body. "So you're all right, then?" Connor asked her.

She stared back at him, and Murphy tugged him on. There was no time to wait for her shell-shock to subside.

They ran flat-out to the LTD.

It roared to life and Connor slammed on the gas, launching them across the flooded asphalt before Murphy's door was even closed. He reached and caught it, hearing the car backfire as he pulled it shut.

Connor grimaced and glanced heavenward. "Give us a break, would You?" He was answered with two more violent blasts.

"Cruisers to your right," Murphy warned but Connor was already veering the opposite direction, keeping the headlights off. Murphy scanned the road behind them, expecting every second to be followed by a responding unit.

The LTD bottomed out again and again as they zigzagged though the smaller streets and alleys, but Connor never slowed. Only as they crossed the Congress Street Bridge, the imaginary threshold into familiar South Boston territory, did Murphy peel off his mask.


	2. Apartment

**[Chapter 2: Apartment]**

Murphy awoke with a groan. The morning sun glinted harshly off the white ceiling, making him squint, which set his entire head to throbbing. He lifted an arm to shield his eyes, wincing at the stab of pain that shot through his neck and shoulder muscles, and the sting of a fresh scab cracking open on his elbow.

His elbow? He opened one eye for a peek. It was a rough, ugly scab—how had he gotten that? Oh, right…dodging bullets. The fog in his mind began to clear, but the picture wasn't pretty. He let his arm drop over his eyes and felt a sharper pain on the back of his head. Feeling carefully with aching fingertips, he discovered a golf-ball sized lump on the back of his skull that was more than a bit tender. Luckily since he hadn't had a haircut in so long, it probably wouldn't be too noticeable.

The urge to sink back under the covers warred with the need for food until finally his stomach won. The bed was low, and his legs actually shook with the effort of standing—one more reason to be grateful he no longer shared a bedroom with his pitiless brother.

They'd happened upon the housing deal of the century – a two-bedroom apartment with a harried landlord only too happy not to have to handle cleaning out the place after the previous renter kicked the bucket. He and Connor were just glad the old guy had been found dead in his recliner and not his bed, since the mattress would have been a lot harder to get rid of. With the last of the Russians' money, they'd paid six months' rent up front, giving the landlord an excuse not to look too closely at their application. Murphy had won the coin flip for the double bed in the master, leaving Connor in the second bedroom with the futon and the electric-red lava lamp.

Murphy pulled on jeans and shuffled across the gold shag carpet to the dining room where Connor sat at the pockmarked oak table cleaning his gun. The morning sun glared viciously through the window and he jerked the thin curtains closed, succeeding mostly in giving the room a sickening avocado-green tint.

"You look like shit," Connor said. "How's your head?"

"Been worse." Although not by much. "Not a scratch on you I see."

"Twisted my ankle in that pothole," Connor said, flicking Murphy's sunglasses across the table to him. "That make you feel better?"

"It does a bit." Murphy slipped the glasses on gratefully and headed for the kitchen.

"Don't bother," Connor told him. "Damn food fairy fucked us again."

Murphy opened the fridge anyway and for a minute considered the ketchup and the half-inch chunk of butter. Maybe later, if he got really desperate.

He sunk into the chair across from Connor and eyed the cleaning kit warily, knowing he ought to finish the chore now while the supplies were out. Swallowing a groan at the movement, he stretched for the duffel bag at Connor's feet.

Connor stopped cleaning and stared at him.

"What?" Murphy asked defensively. So he wasn't the gun-maintenance master that Connor was, but there was no need to rub it in, especially on a morning like this. He dug through the bag, pushing aside the rope and extra holsters, feeling more and more annoyed as Connor continued to watch him.

Then it hit him.

"Son of a _bitch_. That cocksucker made off with my gun!"

"Genius you are."

"Damn it, that was a good weapon. That was an _instrument_."

Connor went back to his pistol. "I won't ask you if it was clean."

Murphy's skin bristled. "It was clean," he answered evenly. "It's always clean."

"And the-"

"Bullets, too, aye. What the hell do you think I bought the latex gloves for?"

"Do you really want an answer to that?" Connor closed an eye and peered down the gun's barrel critically. "It probably doesn't matter anyway. If the bastard's smart, he's already tossed it in a dumpster."

Murphy watched him expertly reassemble the gun with a surprising ache of loss. "If the bastard's smart, he's already sold it on the street. The silencer alone's worth six hundred bucks."

"Maybe he'll hold on to it, then. When we find him you can ask for it back."

Murphy scoffed. "You planning to find him?"

"You planning to let him walk away?"

Murphy shrugged and immediately regretted it as pain shot through his back and neck. "I hadn't really thought about it," he said, easing his bruised shoulder blades against the back of the chair. "Scuderi's dead. Mission was a success."

"A success? How hard did you hit your head? We left behind four fucking bodies and an eyewitness."

"Three bodies. I think the paramedic was okay."

Connor gave him a look.

"All right, so it was a total cluster fuck," Murphy admitted. "Scuderi's still dead."

"So is some innocent old woman."

"And so is the fucking thug that killed her. Sweet shot, by the way."

"It was a fucking beautiful shot," Connor said, cracking a smile that lasted only briefly. "I should have taken him out sooner."

"Don't. Don't even start with that shit, man. If you really want to go that route, _I_ should have taken him out from the alley."

Connor looked up, surprised. "I thought that wasn't an option."

"It wasn't," Murphy said, not really wanting to open the topic for discussion. "Just like it wasn't an option for you to bend bullets around a human shield. You're good, Con, but those tricks only work in Hollywood."

"I was waiting for the girl to _move_…she finally did, once the thug started firing." Connor rubbed his face tiredly. "I shouldn't have waited."

"Don't be an idiot. You did what you could, when you could, and it was fucking nicely done."

Connor didn't answer, just frowned and began to put away the cleaning kit.

Murphy knew he'd say nothing more about it, but that didn't mean Connor's issues were put to rest. Murphy lit a cigarette to fill the silence. "Who do you think they were?" he asked.

"Hard to say. Scuderi probably got death threats every other day." Connor zipped the bag closed and thought for a moment. "The victims of his scumbag clients would be my guess."

"But the things the guy was saying – it didn't have the ring of revenge to it. More like…tying up loose ends."

"Maybe the clients themselves," Connor suggested, "those scumbags he's been getting off the hook for all these years."

"His biggest client was Yakavetta. Papa Joe's not reaching out from the grave to cover his ass now."

"Scuderi worked for the whole lot of them, not just Papa Joe. Maybe somebody's trying to move up."

Murphy thought about this while he gingerly tugged on his boots. "Scuderi's been burying the mob's dirty secrets for thirty years. You can bet if there's one asshole out there looking to take Yakavetta's place, there's a dozen, and blackmail's a powerful weapon. Scuderi's a fucking walking textbook of dirty laundry."

"And now he's dead," Connor finished. "If that's the case, then the bastard-and whoever he's working for-are going to have to find another source, assuming it's that important to them."

"It was important enough to kill for."

"And to die for," Connor said, reaching for his own boots. "We did give them the chance to walk away."

"If they killed for this information once, they'll kill for it again. I say more power to them if it's another piece of shit like Scuderi, but we've already seen what they'll do to good people who happen to stand in the way."

Murphy waited for Connor to look up, waited for the resolve he'd seen six months earlier in a leaky holding cell.

Connor's eyes raised and Murphy was not disappointed. "We can't let them hurt anyone else."

Murphy gave him the slightest of nods and the decision was made. Connor returned a ghost of a smile and wandered to the window, parting the curtains to look down on the street below.

The light poured in, but this time Murphy was ready for the pain. "So we go after him—alone?"

"Alone. It'd be grand to have Smecker's help on this, but…"

"I know. It's not worth the risk." Murphy took a breath, pushing forward before his mind had the chance to wander down unpleasant paths. "We need to know where to look. Getaway car's our best clue, but a beater with a bad paint job doesn't exactly stand out around here."

"You didn't notice anything else while you were-"

"Getting my ass kicked?"

Connor grinned. "I was going to be diplomatic and say 'splashing around in the mud puddles.'"

"Fuck you."

"Seriously, man – hair color, missing teeth, anything?"

Murphy closed his eyes, replaying the fight in his mind. "A tattoo," he remembered, "on the…right side of his chest. I didn't see much, just the tip of a tail right here." He indicated the space on his own ribcage.

"What kind of tail?"

"Like a devil's tail, but different."

Connor rolled his eyes. "You didn't try for a closer look?"

"I was a little busy at the time. Come to think of it, I _did_ try. And now I have a concussion."

"Forget the tat, forget the car," Connor said with a wave of his hand. "We've got a body. That fat thug's life may have been a waste, but you can bet his death is going prove very useful."

"Aye. Let's see if they've got a name yet." He pushed out of his chair, mildly annoyed that the most obvious lead hadn't occurred to him. Good thing they didn't both have concussions. He clicked through the channels, seeing nothing but static.

"Damn, they must have finally shut off the cable," Connor said, grabbing the keys off the kitchen counter. "C'mon. We'll catch the news at the Yolk."


	3. News

**[Chapter 3: News]**

The Broken Yolk was a breakfast diner that would serve you prime rib at six a.m. and Belgian waffles at midnight, which was probably why it had been a staple in the MacManus diet for the better part of ten years.

For a Saturday morning, the place was only moderately busy, most of the patrons at tables and booths, leaving half of the stools at the counter available. The weather girl from Channel 22 cheerfully predicted sunny skies from the small, ceiling-mounted television at the far end of the counter.

Connor glanced at his watch. "Four minutes to eight," he said, choosing a stool within earshot of the TV.

Murphy smiled his good morning to Janice, who was already making her way over with two mugs and a steaming pot of coffee.

Oh, yeah. He'd be needing it today.

No doubt the story would be repeated all day long, but Murphy guessed the longer, more detailed version would lead the news at the top of the hour.

Janice poured the first mug but didn't place it before him. "Well look who decided to grace us with their charmin' turncoat presence. Been taking your coffee down at Dunkies for the summer? That sugary stuff will kill you, you know."

Murphy eyed the swirling brew, his head pounding. "We'd never go cheatin' on you, Janice."

"Ha. Not like I cared. Not like I was nursing a broken heart, thinking you two had flown back home to your mama."

"Bite your tongue, woman," Connor said. "Why do you think we left in the first place?"

Janice frowned at Murphy. "He doesn't mean that."

Murphy reached across the counter and lifted the mug from her hand. "Not if it's Ma asking."

_Whap!_ A stack of newspapers slapped onto the counter, tagging his mug enough to slosh coffee over the side. He winced, reaching for a napkin. Janice kept her custom brew piping hot.

A scraggly boy climbed up onto the stool next to him. "That a fresh pot?" he asked Janice.

"Good morning to you, too, Omar. Yes, it is a fresh pot. And no you will not be having any."

Omar held up a finger, slid his oversized Celtics backpack off one shoulder and unzipped it, giving Murphy an unobstructed view of the wad of cash tucked inside an empty Virginia Slims pack.

"Jesus, kid. You rob a bank?"

Omar gave him a withering look, pulling a few ones off the top. "I'm a _businessman_," he said. Then, his face poker-serious, he slid the bills across the counter, splaying the short stack ever so subtly for Janice's benefit. "Make mine to go," he told her.

Janice narrowed her eyes. "Got a special mug for you in the back. Wait here while I run off to fetch it."

She disappeared into the kitchen and Omar turned to Murphy with a slick smile. "Want to buy a paper?"

Connor elbowed Murphy. The morning news intro music was beginning to play.

Janice returned and plopped a pint carton of milk in front of Omar. "What the hell?" the boy exclaimed. "This is discrimination!"

"What?" Janice said. "I brewed this special, just for you. Ground the beans myself."

Omar grumbled as he opened the carton. "You know," he said, turning to Murphy, "If you want the _real_ story, watching that piece of crap TV is a waste of your time. Newspapers have eighty-five percent more coverage than the news on television."

"Aye, but they're published the night before. 'T'isn't exactly up to the minute."

"So what's breaking right now? The weather report?" The kid jabbered on but Murphy tuned him out.

The newscaster introduced Sally McBride, live at the scene, as the headline flashed in bold letters across the bottom of the screen:

TRIPLE HOMICIDE: YAKAVETTA LAWYER MURDERED.

Omar paused mid-sentence. "Holy shit."

"Thank you, Bob," Sally began. "Our lead story this morning is one of shocking violence. Last night, as rain poured down on the city of Boston, a 9-1-1 call for medical assistance was made from attorney Eugene Scuderi's office in Downtown Crossing. Paramedics responded, only to become victims of an attack that left three people dead, the highest body count in a single incident since last spring's serial killings attributed to the so-called Saints of South Boston.

"Police have yet to release their initial statement, but sources tell us that Scuderi was found dead at the scene, along with two other victims whose names have yet to be released. Responding paramedics escaped with minor injuries."

Yellow crime scene tape kept the reporter a fair distance from the action, but the camera zoomed in on the red plastic triangles marking where the bodies had lain before the coroner took them. Uniformed officers guarded the perimeter from curious onlookers while men in suits walked the scene.

Murphy felt a weight lift as he recognized Detectives Dolly, Duffy, and Greenly in the background. The camera panned to the rear of the plaza, where two other men were deep in discussion at the entry to the now very familiar alley between Scuderi's office and the dry cleaners. The slim man with hands on his hips was unmistakably FBI agent Paul Smecker, their strongest ally. The other man was younger, with blonde hair and a black, well-cut suit. He was sipping coffee from a Starbucks cup, listening but somehow lacking the instinctive submissiveness that all other policemen seemed to display in Smecker's presence. The camera zoomed in on the pair, now the most interesting aspect of the cold crime scene.

Smecker pointed to something off-screen, sending the blonde man away, toward the storefront of the dry cleaners.

"Hold on, Bob, it appears the investigators may be ready to give us a statement," the reporter said, rushing to meet the blonde man as he neared the border of the crime scene. "Sally McBride, KYOY action news," she announced, reaching her microphone as far as possible over the yellow tape. "Officer, what can you tell us so far?"

The man glanced over his shoulder at Smecker, then smiled for the camera. Murphy found himself irrationally suspicious of his perfectly straight, white teeth. "It's Detective, ma'am. Detective Joshua Beckman. And I'm not authorized to tell you much except that we'll be giving this investigation our full attention."

"Eugene Scuderi was best known for his role as Joseph "Papa Joe" Yakavetta's defense attorney. Was his murder connected to organized crime? Or is there perhaps some evidence linking his death to other homicides that the Boston police have been unable to solve?"

Murphy cringed behind his mug of coffee. The media had been taking these little digs at the investigators for months, but it wasn't usually to their faces.

"We're taking this case very seriously," Beckman said smoothly. "We intend to make sure this crime is not only solved, but that the perpetrators are punished to the full extent of the law. It's time the people of Boston saw an end to this spree of violence. Now, if you'll excuse me…." With another smile, he walked away before Sally could ask anything else.

Sally wrapped up with a repeat of her previous comments and the screen returned to the news desk in the studio.

Murphy flipped out his wallet while Connor chugged the remainder of his coffee.

Omar slumped on the stool beside him. "Great," he muttered. "Ain't nobody gonna buy these papes now."

Murphy tossed some bills on counter, and a few more in Omar's direction, then followed Connor outside.

"No names yet," Connor said as they crossed the street to Dorchester. "No warnings to the public, or descriptions."

"Think the pretty boy will be a problem?"

"Well he's already gettin' Smecker's panties in a twist. Not that that takes much doing."

"Sounds like they've no witness statements yet. All they talked about was the 9-1-1 call. Could've gotten that much from just listening to a police scanner."

"We'll try again at noon. They ought to have more by then."

[PART 2]

After making a run for groceries and beer, and a pointless trip to the Army-Navy Surplus in search of newer, drier peacoats, it was nearly noon. The televisions at Theo's TV & Appliance were tuned to Channel 22, but it didn't make a difference. The story was a repeat of what they'd heard that morning.

Back at their apartment, Murphy's head began to throb again. When the groceries had rung up higher than their meager budget, they'd been forced to choose between Tylenol and beer. Murphy had hesitated—his head really did hurt like a bitch—so Connor had made the call, convincing him there were bound to be pain killers in the overflowing medicine cabinet they'd inherited.

And so, trying not to think too much about it, he picked a bottle, popped a pill and washed it down with a can of Guinness.

He awoke to find the living room windows dark and his brother twisting a wire coat hanger around the television antennae, a box of tin foil at his feet.

"How long have you been at that?" Murphy asked, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes.

"Not as long as you've been sawing logs. I've almost got one channel coming in. Picture's shitty, but the sound is all right."

Murphy lifted the remote and turned up the volume, finally having to get up and stand next to the TV so he could hear the voices.

"This is Telemundo, Connor."

"So? You're fluent in seven languages."

"They're going to be quoting the investigators tonight, jackass. Maybe even the lone surviving witness."

Connor looked up, a little too quickly, and the left antennae tipped over. "Damn."

Murphy took the roll of tin foil and held it out of reach. "You really want to base our next move on some second-hand translation?"

"What the hell's the difference? Any news we get is second hand." Connor pushed the wires away irritably, and Murphy knew what he was really saying.

"You know why we can't talk to Smecker," Murphy said. "After the courthouse, it's a wonder they haven't all lost their jobs. Contacting them now would be…"

"It's too risky, I know. I'm just saying it'd be a hell of a lot faster to compare notes. Faster for us, at least. Smecker's probably got us pinned already, probably going nuts trying to figure where the other two came from."

"Do you think so? The trail's pretty muddy."

"The girl knows that the first two men wanted Scuderi, and that we came in and saved her. Granted, we were all of us in masks, but she had to know we weren't with them. For certain she heard our accents."

Murphy handed him back the foil. It was such a simple task to fade the Irish out of his speech; after nearly a decade in Boston, he hardly had to think about it anymore. So why did he never have the presence of mind to do it when it mattered? "Do you think she'll try to help bring us in, give a description?"

Connor shrugged. "She makes a living serving the public. Hell, she probably works with most of those cops everyday. She'll give them what they ask for."

"Damn shame. I was starting to enjoy showing my face in public again."

"Don't I know it."

Murphy read Connor's watch upside-down. "It's too late to try to catch the news at the Yolk, and you can never be sure about Theo's."

"There are other televisions in Southie," Connor pointed out in a tone that was almost grim.

Murphy looked at him, knowing Connor had stopped short of mentioning the most obvious choice: McGinty's Pub. They hadn't been back there since St. Patrick's Day, when a bar fight had changed their lives forever, nearly six months ago. It felt like years.

"Sure you're ready for that little reunion?"

Connor chewed his lip for a moment, then cranked up the volume dial. "I need to work on my Spanish anyway."

The facts were fairly simple to translate: The remaining two victims' names were Martha Frances Osborne of South Boston and Leonardo Buffone of North End, a mob-connected thug with a criminal history including some prison time for assault and battery. The police had stated that according to a witness, Buffone was shot by his partner, the second gunman who fled the scene before authorities arrived.

They went on to describe the escaped man as white or hispanic, also wearing a ski mask, a black jacket and pants. Anyone with any information was encouraged to call an anonymous tip hotline. The newscasters eagerly compared the violence to that of Saints', but only in speculation.

Connor sighed, shuffling to the kitchen and returning with two beers.

"You were right," Murphy mused, catching his. "The thug was connected."

"Leonardo Buffone. You ever hear Roc mention that name?"

Murphy frowned. "Maybe. I don't know. He hated all those enforcer assholes."

"He hated them, but he knew them," Connor said, cracking open his can. "Leo Buffone," he mused again. "Mama Del might've known him."

Murphy stopped drinking mid-sip. "You can't be serious."

"Why not? She talks to everyone. Probably knows more dirt than Roc did."

"I can't believe I'm fucking hearing this. "

"All I'm suggesting is that we pay a visit to the grieving mother of a good fucking friend, something we should have done months ago as it is."

Murphy sank into the couch, thinking there were few women he dreaded seeing more than Rocco's cantankerous mother. Only one, actually, and since she was three thousand miles away, Mama Del essentially topped the list.

"We'll bring her a nice Chianti," Connor went on, "ask her how she is."

"And if she starts spouting off about the latest buzz down at the local," Murphy finished for him, "you won't be the one to stop her."

"You got a better plan?" Connor asked. "Buffone's our best link – our _only_ link. If we can't ring up Smecker and the boys, Mama Del's our best chance at getting the goods on him."

At the Yolk the next morning, they bypassed the counter in favor of the privacy of a booth.

The waitress had just poured their coffee when a newspaper slapped onto the table between them.

"Killing Spree—Deadly Shooting Claims Three in Downtown Crossing," Omar read aloud, moving to block Connor's view of the TV. "The Globe's got details you won't hear on that crap news show."

Black and white head shots of each of the victims stared at Murphy from the front page. Buffone's face was rounder than he'd imagined it to be under that ski mask. Martha's was happier. He turned his eyes away from her smiling portrait and took a sip of coffee, burning his tongue.

"It may be crap," Connor told Omar, "but it's free crap, and you're charging, what, two dollars?"

"Three."

"Three! Jesus, I can buy me one from the box outside for a buck-fifty."

"Yeah, but you need six quarters. You got six quarters?"

Connor checked his pockets and frowned. Murphy dug out several shiny pennies.

"How much you got in your wallet?" Omar asked him.

"How much you got tucked in your pack of girlie smokes? I surely hope you're not the one who emptied it, by the way."

"Whatever," Omar sniffed. "I got fifty-one dollars. And some change."

"Damn, this is depressing," Murphy said.

"That his salary's better than ours?" Connor asked.

"No, that with all that cash, he's buying himself fucking Virginia Slims."

Omar's lips pursed thoughtfully. "Give you five bucks for your Camels."

"I'll give you…" Connor pried open his own wallet and winced. "_Seven_ bucks if you promise not to smoke until the packies sell them to you legal. You're too young to be killing yourself already."

"Ha. You were probably doing it younger than me."

"That's not the point."

"Here's my final offer," Omar said, tossing another paper on the table between them. "For the rest of that pack, I'll give you two papers for free."

"Why would we want two papers?" Murphy asked.

"You gonna share? What, are you married?"

Connor took a breath, his nostrils flaring. "Look, kid. Save your spin for someone who's buying it. We've got business to discuss here."

"Fine," Omar said, taking the papers back. He turned to go, then hesitated, his scowl faltering as it fell on Murphy. "Here," he said, handing one paper back to Murphy quickly. "For yesterday. Now we're even." And with that, he stalked off. It wasn't until he'd exited the diner that Murphy remembered the few dollars he'd left for Omar on his way out the day before.

Connor slid off the top section of the paper and read the front page.

After a few minutes, he folded it and handed it to Murphy. "Buffone's funeral - Saturday, nine a.m."

Murphy let it lay there, preferring to let Connor summarize. "And the others? The old woman was from Southie, they said."

"Scud's to be cremated. Fitting, considering where he's headed. The old woman – Martha Osborne– is to be buried Saturday as well. Service at Saint Auggie's."

"Fuck." She'd gone to church at their parish. How many times had they passed her in the parking lot, or sat next to her in a pew? Or offended her with an early exit or a smoke on the front steps?

Connor dug out his lighter. He flipped the top open, watched the flame for a moment, then flipped it closed again. Then again – open, light, close. He was mulling something – something more than funeral schedules.

"I'll not be loaning you mine when you run out of butane," Murphy said after few minutes.

"That's a lie, you know you will," Connor said. Again with the lighter – open, light, close.

Murphy snatched it from his hand. "Out with it. You're driving me nuts."

"Two gunmen," Connor said simply. "One dead at the scene, supposedly shot by his partner."

Murphy felt his neck tense, suspecting where the conversation was headed. "So?"

"I didn't worry about it last night, thinking they'd have the facts straight in the morning's paper, but…It's the same story here. She lied."

"The paramedic? I'm still waiting to hear the problem." He set the lighter on the table. Leave it to Connor to find an issue with the one highlight in the whole tragic mess.

"The guy," Connor continued, picking the up silver Zippo, twirling it between his thumb and finger. "What was his name? John. He never saw anyone else after he got knocked out, so when she said there were only two gunmen…"

"There was no one to contradict her story. Works out nicely that way."

"She lied for us. To the cops."

"Don't forget the FBI."

"Fuck, yeah, the FBI." Connor flicked open the lighter, adjusting the flame until it was nearly three inches tall, then snapped it closed suddenly with a curse and sucked the tip of his finger.

"You saved her life, Con. She wants to cut you a break, so let her."

"I don't _want_ to let her cut me a break. If she lied, she's involved. If she's involved…" Connor trailed off, running a hand through his hair.

"Jesus, knock the shite out of your head, would you?" Murphy snapped. "You're only too happy to go shake some dirt out of _Roc's mother_, but when a grateful stranger chooses to cover your ass by omitting a few facts, you've got to have a problem with it."

"It's the police that are going to have a problem with it. You're the one talking about all the scrutiny Smecker's under now. What happens if he lets her off the hook - you think this new Beckman lad's going to keep quiet when he puts the pieces together?"

"It's a shit deal, Con, but there's nothing we can to do to help her. You did what you did, and now she's done what she's done-"

"And now it's all out of our hands, is that it?" Connor said darkly.

"It was never in _our_ hands. That's the whole fucking point, isn't it?"

Connor frowned. "Eat your eggs," he said finally. "We're already late for mass."

_**Author's Note: **__I live for feedback. Please punch that button and share yours!_


	4. Chapel

**[Chapter 4: Chapel]**

The heavy double doors of St. Augustine's were propped open and parishioners climbed the steps in pairs or in families, some greeting each other, others preoccupied with wayward little ones or with hurrying to use the restroom before mass began. The air in the lobby was a familiar medley of damp carpet, aged wood, perfume and candle wax, and to Murphy it triggered almost the same sense of reverence as the colored light sparkling through the high stained glass. He unzipped his sweatshirt and pushed up the sleeves, waiting behind Mrs. Callaghan, whose gnarled fingers shook as she dipped them in holy water and crossed herself. As she turned to enter the sanctuary, her loose sweater snagged on the ceramic font and would have taken it down with her had Murphy not caught her by the elbow.

She gave the tattoo on his forearm a long look as she righted herself. "Well, bless my soul—is it you, Connor?"

"Don't be fooled, Georgia," Connor said, taking her other arm, "That there's Murphy. I'm the man you've been missing."

With great effort, she craned her neck to look up at each of them. "Missing, hah. You boys have been forsaking the assembly so long—if it weren't for those blue-haired old biddies at the dining hall asking about you, I'd have forgotten you altogether."

Murphy smiled because Mrs. Callaghan was by far the bluest haired of all the old biddies at the retirement home that provided visitors a free lunch on Sundays. "They still serving up that roast beef?"

"With soupy potatoes and lumpy gravy. Never changes."

"Oh, you're just spoiled," Connor told her. ""Twas always a fine meal I ate, with fine company."

"That being yourselves," Mrs. Callaghan said, managing to make the compliment sound like a dig. "If you could hear the way those old girls gossip on Sunday nights…of course, when you stopped coming by, so sudden, the talk was a little more...interesting."

"Is that so?" Connor asked, glancing at Murphy.

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Callaghan said as they reached her usual seat, four pews from the front. Murphy cautiously let go of her but she didn't sit, her attention drawn far beyond them to the doorway to the west chapel. "Oh, dear," she sighed again, reaching for Murphy's arm. "Look at me, driven to distraction by the likes of you two. I've a prayer on my heart, and—well, frankly I'm afraid if I wait until after the Monsignor's sermon I won't remember to-"

"It's no trouble," Murphy said, helping her retrace their steps. "Might light a candle or two myself."

All the way up the increasingly crowded aisle, Murphy wondered what she'd meant by _interesting_. The banter that passed from table to table at the Westerly Adult Community was usually more far-fetched, and often more biased than anything he was likely to overhear at Doc's-and that was saying something. But the truth was that many of the elderly residents had sons and daughters and grandchildren whose lives kept them closely tied to the Southie community. It was in fact a distant nephew of Mrs. Callaghan's, a man they'd met over an Easter Ham one year, that had provided the essential tools that made the Saints' missions possible. And after Murphy's empty-handed escape Friday night, it was about time to pay Seamus another visit.

Connor stepped behind to let Murphy and Mrs. Callaghan through the doorway to the small chapel. It was unusually crowded, the altar ablaze with candles, though partially blocked from view by several parishioners taking turns praying and lighting the remaining votives. Connor's face grew solemn and Mrs. Callaghan's grip tighter as in front of them a space cleared, and a small, framed photograph came into view.

It was Martha Osborne, the woman he had not saved. He'd seen the very same picture on the front page of the Globe not more than an hour ago. He knew St. Augustine's had been her home church. And yet somehow he'd been wholly unprepared.

"Did you know her?" Mrs. Callaghan asked, with a lilt of surprise.

He must have said the name aloud.

_No. But I watched her die._ "I didn't have that good fortune," Murphy said.

"I did," Mrs. Callaghan sighed. "She had a quiet way about her, but she was the most wonderful seamstress. Always made the costumes for the children's Christmas pageant, did you know that?"

Murphy shook his head, hoping she wouldn't go on. He didn't want to know any more. The candle flames were hot on his eyes. He took a small step back and bumped Connor, who put a hand on his shoulder.

The room began to clear out: mass was about to start. Mrs. Callaghan, to her credit, tried as best she could to keep her hands steady enough to light a votive, but in the end Connor had to help her.

She didn't cry, Mrs. Callaghan. She just stood there with her hands clasped, shaking her head as if to say, _what a shame_. Murphy stared into the flames, watching the unstoppable replay: the explosion of gunfire, the sudden silence. The numbing fear that Connor had been shot. The rush of relief at the sight of Buffone and the crumpled green raincoat. Then of course, the crushing guilt.

A black-robed figure appeared in the chapel doorway.

"Mrs. Callaghan?" Sister Margaret said, "May I help you to your seat?"

Murphy looked up, surprised to see they were now nearly alone. Mrs. Callaghan gave Murphy's hand a squeeze, and then nodded.

Sister Margaret offered her arm, her sharp eyes assessing both Murphy and Connor before they turned to go. Murphy expected a reminder about the time, but she only said quietly, "Take as long as you like."

But Murphy was through. Wallowing accomplished nothing, other than to color his nightmares, which were hardly in need of fresh fuel. He lit a candle stiffly, emptying his mind of everything but the physical task.

He'd already started for the door when Connor smacked him on the arm.

"What?" he snapped. Let Connor stay if he wanted. They weren't attached at the hip.

But Connor nodded toward the short line of pews. In the front row sat two women clasping rosaries, and in the back a man sat alone, head bowed in prayer. Even from the relative distance, Murphy could see the man was sharply dressed in a black suit, and there was something very familiar about his shiny brown hair.

"Fuckin' A," Connor whispered. "C'mon."

They slid into the last pew, stopping directly behind the man in the suit, who had yet to look up from his prayer.

"Dear Lord," Connor prayed in a stage whisper. "I'm so very lonely. Please bring me a man, a big strong man with a great big-"

The man turned his head. "Jesus fucking Christ," he said irritably, but there was no mistaking his grin. "God, it's good to see you guys again," he said, rubbing his neck. "About time you showed up, I'm about to throw a disk here. I don't how you people can pray so friggin' long."

"You gotta start slow, Smecker," Murphy said. "How long you been waiting here?"

The agent checked his watch. "Long enough. Figured I might run into you here."

"So this isn't just a happy coincidence?" Connor asked. "No plans to convert?"

"Yeah right," Smecker muttered, turning fully around after the two women exited the chapel. "So how the hell have you been? You don't write, you don't call…"

"Sorry, Paul. We thought it'd be best for everyone."

"Can't help but notice the hole in the holy trinity – where's your old man?"

Connor blew out a breath. "Heart troubles a few months ago, had to send him home."

Smecker's eyebrows rose. "To the motherland? I'm sorry to hear it. Must have cost you big."

"Plane ticket, passport, new clothes…new identity. Everything has its price. This particular price is going to have us back at Noland's meatpacking in another week."

"Back to work already?"

There was no doubting the question he was really asking. "Come on now, Paul," Murphy said. "Are you going to tell us there's another reason you're here in the Lord's house?"

"Perhaps another confession for Father Tim?" Connor asked.

"I had a gut feeling. But I don't like to get my hopes up without reason," Smecker admitted. "I needed to see for myself."

"Well, we had some unfinished business to take care of."

"About time," Smecker said.

"How about yourself?" Murphy asked, realizing he'd actually missed the man.

"Aye, we caught your act on the telly," Connor said. "Office gettin' a bit crowded?"

"Not nearly as crowded as yours, apparently. Although I'm guessing Leo Buffone wasn't a new recruit."

Connor scoffed. "That'd be the fucking day."

Murphy could tell from the way Connor chewed his cheek that his brother had no more desire to tell this story than he did. Where to even start?

It was so quiet he could hear Smecker suck in a breath and hold it. "Well, fill me in anytime you want. It's only been the longest two days of my fucking life—but you know, whenever you're ready. Take your time."

"Thought you'd have it all worked out by now," Connor said, stalling. "With charts and diagrams."

"And reenactments."

"Give me a break, guys. I've got one upstanding witness who's lying her ass off to me, two guys that deserved to die, and one old lady that sure as hell didn't."

Involuntarily Murphy's eyes fell on the prayer shrine for Martha. "Scuderi was the target," he said. "When the ambulance showed up, we were going to bail, but then Buffone and his partner busted in to make a fucking hash of it all."

"We were only trying to save the medics at that point," Connor said. "The old woman – Martha – came out the dry cleaner's and started screaming. Buffone shot her before we could stop him."

"I'm guessing he didn't last long after that?"

Connor smiled without humor. "Evil man, dead man."

"Scuderi was next. But the hooded fucker got away."

Smecker pulled a small notebook from his suit jacket and flipped to a paper-clipped page. "Witness described the vehicle as a brown and tan early-eighties sedan," he said, "possibly a Buick or Oldsmobile Cutlass, with multiple dents along the passenger side and a broken rear window."

"Aye, the window'd be a recent development," Murphy said. "Courtesy of Connor."

"Anything to add?" Smecker asked.

"Other than a few bullets holes to the trunk, I'd say that's mighty fucking accurate. What else do you have from the, ah, witnesses?"

A crease that was almost a smile grew on Smecker's face. "Two masked gunmen. The fat one shoots Martha, the tall one shoots the fat one, then Scuderi. No official theory yet on how he managed to ventilate Scuderi from both sides simultaneously."

"She lied to protect us," Murphy said. "That going to be an issue for you?"

"Makes things interesting," Smecker said. "But we'll deal with it."

Connor chewed his cheek again. "What have you got on the fatty?" he asked.

"Leonardo Buffone. Dumb muscle, pure and simple. Dolly and Duffy are working through his known associates. He used to collect for Yakavetta, but since June he's been taking jobs for whoever's paying, usually Papa Joe's cousin Carmen Mancini. We're running Buffone's cell phone to check his recent calls."

"You don't sound too hopeful."

Smecker shook his head slightly. "Scuderi was scum, but he was high-profile scum. I don't think whoever's behind this would leave a trail."

"Scud's been scum for years. If he was so high-profile, how come the Feds never took him down?"

"The Bureau let him slide around the law, convinced he'd slip up and give them a way to take down Papa Joe. Scud was a big fish, but Papa Joe was a whale."

"Aren't you working the Organized Crime bit? Don't tell me it was your deal."

Smecker scratched an eyebrow. "By way of inheritance, yes. My predecessor was more of a watch and wait type, although to be fair, the approach has worked in a number of cases. Most of the time, people screw up."

Murphy thought of the sheer number of victims the Feds' approach left unprotected. "So while you're sitting around listening to wire taps, Yakavetta was taking out entire families to pad his profit margins."

"Easy there, Murph," Connor said. "Paul's born again, remember?"

Faint footsteps approached on the carpeted corridor beyond the chapel's open doorway. Sister Margaret tipped her head in. Gritting his teeth, Murphy bowed his head until she padded away.

Smecker gave Murphy a half-smile and continued, "The problem with Scuderi was that he never screwed up. He was Johnnie Cochran in the courthouse, Martha Stewart in the office. You never saw bullshit spelled out with such a clean and precise hand. A neurotic list maker, probably OCD, never missed a detail." Smecker picked a speck of lint from his lapel. "His testimony was going to be a fucking goldmine."

Connor's head tilted. "You mean-"

"He was going to turn state's evidence – Monday morning, eight a.m. We were supposed to send a car for him. Instead we sent the wagon."

"Oh, Jesus," Murphy breathed.

"Family business was getting pretty volatile in the wake of Papa Joe's…passing. Eugene felt it was a good time to retire and haul ass to Barbados."

"Guess it's good then we already took out half the men he'd have squealed on, then," Connor said. "Hell, by the time it's said and done, you'll never have needed Scuderi at all."

"I wish it were that simple," Smecker said, frowning. "It wasn't just the Yakavettas –taking down the rest of the family's just a perk. What we really wanted were his private files on everyone else."

A little red flag waved in Murphy's brain and he looked at Connor. "His files."

Smecker waved a hand impatiently. "Files, list, collection, whatever. Of contacts, wheel greasers, people who made life easier for Papa Joe and his thugs. The _organization_ behind the organized crime – it can't operate in a vacuum."

"The guy," Connor said, "the one that got away-he asked Scuderi about some files."

"Really?" Smecker said. "My witness didn't mention that."

"You sure?" Murphy asked.

"That doesn't make sense," Connor said. "Even if she's trying to protect us – she'd want the real killer caught."

Smecker looked thoughtful. "Maybe she thought you two were after the same thing."

"God this is complicated," Connor said, rubbing his temples. "How's this work with that Beckman lad when you can't tell him how you got the intel?"

"Honestly, it's not going to be easy. He's sharp - he was the first one trying to pin this on the Saints. I had to put the kibash on his plans for a block-to-block man hunt."

"What?" Connor's eyebrows shot up. "News didn't mention anything about the police suspecting—I thought that was just the media spinning the story."

"Yes, well, this was before our trustworthy eyewitness swore on record that there were only two men involved Friday night. And the two-hundred-and-fifty pound meathead in the morgue doesn't fit one inch of the – pardon the terminology – serial killer profile…"

Murphy stiffened. _You _are_ a serial killer_, he reminded himself, but it was like throwing stones against a brick wall. Something inside him wouldn't allow the label to stick.

"So she put him off the scent?" Connor asked.

"Not exactly. Now Beckman's convinced the paramedic's a liar. And he's not wrong. Her record up 'til now's immaculate, so you must have made quite an impression."

"I wasn't trying to make a fucking impression. I was trying to keep her alive."

"Tell us about this file of Scuderi's," Murphy said. "Business was booming for these fuckers. If Scuderi really kept a list, I'd imagine there's hell of a lot of names."

Smecker's voice dropped. "Businessmen, city council members, contractors, judges. We're not talking shmucks who got roped into paying protection, we're talking powerful people – people who stood to lose more than an aging defense attorney did. Scuderi was going to be under twenty-four hour protection once he came in."

"What went wrong?"

"Besides your ill-timed wrath of God? No fucking idea. The lid was airtight on this one. Nobody was going to take the chance of losing our best break in three decades."

"Fuck," Connor swore. "Jesus, man. Fuck. I wish we would have known – I mean, don't get me wrong, we still would've off'd him, but hell, we'd have let him go another week."

"Something tells me your new friends wouldn't have been so flexible. We'll have to downplay the fact they were after more than his wallet, hoping he'll give it another shot and we can nab him, and with any luck, get a hold of the files ourselves. Lord help us if this list gets into the wrong hands."

Suddenly the church organ began to play. Murphy couldn't keep his eyes from scanning the doorway to the sanctuary, expecting Sister Margaret to return at any moment.

Connor checked his watch. "This seems kind of obvious, but can't you just search Scud's office?"

"We're working on it. Defense attorneys – any law office, for that matter, but especially defense attorneys, get especially touchy on the subject of privacy laws and attorney-client privilege. Since his office isn't technically part of the crime scene, getting a warrant – which is critical if we want it admissible in court – is going to be a monumental pain in the ass." He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "In the meantime, the more important focus is the one that got away."

The rumble of knees meeting prayer kneelers carried into the chapel from the sanctuary.

Murphy's eyes darted to the door. "We've got to wrap this up."

Smecker sighed. "I know. I guess my play-by-play can wait til next time." He got to his feet reluctantly. "Before I go, is there _anything_ else you remember about the killer? Nearly half of Boston proper meets our current description."

"He's white for sure," Murphy told him, remembering the flash of pale skin when he'd hiked the guy's jacket up. "Fucking whiter than me. And he's got a tattoo. Not sure of what, but there's this tail that comes around the side onto his chest."

Smecker's eyes narrowed. "Perfect. I'll run it through the database. If he's done time, it might be in the system. Color or black ink?"

"Black. Right side. Like a devil's tail, but not exactly."

"Draw it for me."

All three glanced around for something to write on. Finding none, Smecker plucked a bible from the back of a pew and tore a page from the back.

Connor and Murphy stared at him.

"What? God understands."

"Sister Margaret won't," Murphy said, eyes darting to the arched doorway - mercifully still empty.

Smecker did have a pen, and Murphy took it, biting his lip as he tried to recall exactly what it was that had looked so strange and at the same time, so incredibly familiar.

He sketched the swirl of tail in long, smooth strokes, slowing when he reached the tip. Smecker and Connor leaned close over his shoulder as he hesitated. "Something was different here, something about the shape. Damn." He handed the pen back to Smecker. "It'll come to me, I know it will."

"Don't worry about it. If it gets any hits, we'll pull files, see if there's any photo documentation you can look at. For now, this is better than nothing."

Smecker pulled out his cell phone, hit a speed dial. "Greenly. I need you to…" Smecker held his phone away in disgust, "Are you in the friggin' john? …I don't give a flying fuck how much coffee you drank. Wipe your ass and listen to me… Yeah, it's about the triple." His eyes lifted to Murphy. "A hunch, just came to me. Divine inspiration…" He smiled a little, and ducked his head. "No, I'm not jerkin' your chain," he said quietly, "It's the real deal."

He'd have paid money to see Greenly's reaction. _The Saints are back_, he'd say, probably with a few expletives added. Murphy fought a strange urge to clap his hand over the mouthpiece.

"You ready?" Smecker was saying. "Query 'devil'…Try 'dragon' as well. One more thing – get me addresses for every tattoo parlor in the greater Boston area… No, just a list for now…is Beckman there? Make sure he stays out of it, got me?... Call me when it's done."

"Server's on the blink," Smecker explained, shrugging on his overcoat. "Could be a while before anything turns up."

"I know we've said it before, Paul," Connor said, shoving his hands his pockets. "But I'm saying it again, just so it's clear – you're under no obligation to take this any further - you or the others. We'll work with you to find this guy, but after that—if you want to walk away…"

"Nobody's walking. We chose this – each of us, remember that. Don't you go thinking for one minute that anybody's doing anything against their God-given free will. It's an honor, got that? An _honor_." He looked at each of them, hard, and Murphy felt a pang in his chest, and for some reason wished his father had been there to hear the words.

Connor cleared his throat. "What are you planning to do with the list of tattoo parlors?"

"For the moment, nothing. We'll see what the boys dig up about Buffone, and if this database search spits out anything. If it comes to it, we'll make the rounds. It'll be a bitch, since we'll have to go in unofficial, but I'm guessing most of these tattoo artists keep photos of their finished work."

Murphy's mind caught, grasping for a thought that flickered at the edge of his brain.

Connor was nodding. "The ones I know do. If this guy got it locally – it's a long shot, but it's possible we could find him. Original designs sometimes get marked with initials or a signature symbol – even if the photo's anonymous, we can talk to the artist."

And just like that, the clouds parted. Murphy smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Don't bother with the list. I know the artist. I'm a fucking idiot."

He grabbed the paper and pen and drew in the tip of the tail, rounding out the barbs then shading it all in to form a perfect black spade.

Connor took the paper from him. "Jake? As in One-Eyed-Jake's? You gotta be shittin' me." He handed the drawing to Smecker. "Jake Wheeler. Has a shop, down on Dorchester. Good man, phenomenal artist. The spade's his signature mark."

Murphy pushed up the sleeve of his sweatshirt, ran his finger over the tiny spade tucked in the corner of the cross on his forearm. How in God's name had he missed it?

"I'll be damned," Smecker said, studying Murphy's mark closely. "It's beautiful work. This Wheeler a friend of yours?"

"Sort of," Murphy said, pulling his sleeve down. "We haven't spoken for a while."

"Bit of a falling out," Connor said, his eyes on Murphy. "Nothing that can't be mended."

"Well, get to mending," Smecker said. "If the man trusts you, you're already a step ahead."


	5. Jake's

**[Chapter 5: Jake's]**

.

"I'm starving," Murphy said as Connor pulled into traffic. "Are you hungry? Let's get some breakfast."

"Nah. Jake's the best gun in town, you know that. We'll have to hit him up early, before he gets busy." Connor stopped at a light and slid him a look. "Not to worry, I'll do the talking."

"That's not what I meant. I just would rather not do this on an empty stomach."

Connor's eyes never left the road. "Right."

They approached the turn that would take them to the Yolk and car didn't slow. Murphy sighed. "Fine, bastard. What's the plan?"

"The plan?"

"What? We're supposed to roll in for the first time in years, show him my sketch, and ask him to check his fucking records? If things go well and we do find this guy, his picture's going to be all over the news. Jake can't know. He can't make the connection."

"Aye, that is a bit of a problem," Connor said, tapping the steering wheel. "So we tell him we're there for a friend. Scoping out ideas."

"Jake knows bullshit when he hears it, believe me. It has to be for ourselves."

"How about a memorial, something we'd trust only him to do? We're wanting to look through pieces he's done, get a design worked out. We can say it's for Roc." He glanced at Murphy after a beat. "Sorry, it doesn't have to be for Roc. We can say it's for someone back home."

"No, it's good. Brilliant. He can't say no, even if he wants to. But you know what would be even better – if you go in alone, find the photo, tell him you've got to take it home and show it to me."

"Christ." Connor rolled his eyes. "You are such a fucking wanker. Why are you so afraid of him?"

"Fuck you. I'm not afraid of anything. This way you've an excuse to take the picture with you."

"Bullshit. Would you get over yourself? 'Twasn't Jake who ran off on you."

Murphy's neck grew hot. "It's a bit more complicated than that."

"As you've reminded me more than once. The day you feel like telling the whole story, I'll be happy to make room for complications."

"Not today."

The black and red lettering of the One Eye'd Jake's sign came into view. Murphy found himself hoping the street parking would be full, but as they neared he saw it was empty for half a block.

"Look," Connor said, pulling to the curb, "your heart's not the first that little niece of his trampled, and surely not the last. West coast's probably littered with 'em by now. Even stone-cold Jake's going to understand what's kept you away."

"Jesus Christ, Connor."

Murphy climbed out while the wheels were still rolling, slamming the door behind him. This _is_ about Roc, he told himself, and Martha Osborne, and all the others. Not about him.

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

The shop was somehow smaller than he remembered. The splayed deck of cards painted on the window had been retouched recently, and a smaller version of the logo had also been added on the narrow glass door. Through the glass he could see the same vintage black leather chairs and modern-retro side tables, unusually devoid of customers. Even the walls were the same shade of blood red, though some of the graphic artwork hanging was unfamiliar. Although he couldn't see it, Murphy knew that behind the waiting area was a wide hallway between the four semi-private work rooms, and at the end of that hallway, Jake's office.

They pushed inside. The smell of Lysol and orange Dial soap sparked a thousand memories; the ones that lingered weren't entirely good.

There was the sound of swivel-chair wheels rolling, then a face popped around one of the workroom curtains – one with a lot more silver attached than the last time he'd seen it. The eyes – heavily lined, reminding him of that Green Day singer—went wide and he heard, "Holy shit!" before the young man toppled backwards out of the chair.

"Christ Almighty," Connor said, "it's Zeke, the pizza delivery boy! And he's been hit by shrapnel."

Zeke lay on his back, his laughter wiggling the silver stud in his chin. "Connor MacManus. It's been a while. What's up, Murphy?"

"Your arse end, apparently," Murphy said, helping him to his feet. "Jesus, you're so fucking top heavy it's a wonder you can stay upright."

"Yeah, yeah. You sound like my old man. But I got to advertise, right? Come check out the new inventory."

"I can't get over this," Connor said to Murphy as they followed him to the register, under which a display case sparkled with a grand assortment of painful bodily decorations. "Just seeing him makes me hungry for a slice of meat-lovers supreme. How'd you end up working here, Zeke?"

Zeke shrugged. "I needed better tips, Jake needed a hand around here after…" He glanced at Murphy. "You know, after he started the program. All those meetings – he needed someone he could depend on, and well, some of the other artists aren't too reliable."

_The program_. Meaning rehab. He met Connor's eyes and saw his own regret reflected. Hadn't they always said they'd support Jake, if he was ever ready to take that step? Hadn't they promised as much? But that was before…

"Lot of your standard sterling silver," Zeke was saying with a grand gesture at the display case counter. "But we got a great variety of silicone and acrylics too, plus glass and porcelain, and more titanium and Blackline than any other shop in Southie."

He went on, but Murphy's attention wasn't on the shiny objects. It was on the black-painted plywood board being used for a countertop. He ran a finger along the rough edge, wondering if the two hundred dollars he'd scraped together so long ago hadn't been enough to replace it. Why else would Jake have left it that way all this time?

"Jake won't get it fixed," Zeke said, startling him out of his thoughts. "Won't tell anyone why, just says it's uh…unfinished business."

"This countertop you mean?" Connor asked. "Didn't it used to be glass?"

"Mm-hmm," Murphy said. And when punched, that glass had shattered like a piñata.

Zeke and Connor looked at him.

Murphy cleared his throat and squatted down to peer into the case. "What's this here, this ball and chain?" he asked.

"That part's for your ear," Zeke told him. "The other end's for your nose."

Connor leaned closer. "With the chain connecting the two, I see. Well, that's…handy."

"Be good on you," Zeke told him. "With your bone structure—fuckin' tight."

"Tight, yeah. I'll, uh…think about it," Connor said. "Listen, is Jake around? We wanted to talk to him about a design."

Zeke glanced up the hallway. The light was on in the office and Murphy thought he could hear the classic rock station playing in the background. "That why you're here?" Zeke asked, looking at Murphy again. "For a tat?"

"Not quite ready for punching holes yet," Connor said. "No offense."

Zeke smiled, and for some reason kept his eyes on Murphy. "That's not exactly what I meant."

"We can come back later if he's busy," Murphy said.

"Oh, come on, Murph. We can hang here a bit," Connor said, leaning casually against the counter. "Zeke, where're you lads keeping the gallery these days? I only see two books on that coffee table."

"Those are flash. It's all we got out right now."

"What happened to all the Polaroids?" Murphy asked.

"Oh, somebody got a wild hair to reorganize that shit. Office looks like a camera threw up on it." Again with the secret smile. "You ought to go on back, check it out. It's a mess but uh…you might find something you like."

If Jake was back there, he seriously doubted it. At this point, he could only handle one mess at a time.

"Jake say when he'd be done with this reorganizing?" Murphy asked.

"A week, maybe two," Zeke guessed, glancing past them up the hall. "But I can't make any promises."

Murphy turned. There, striding up the black and white checkered tiles was the man himself. From the size thirteen motorcycle boots to the black tee shirt stretched across his massive chest to the devil horns tattooed on the crown of his shiny bald head, Jake looked exactly as Murphy remembered him. Except bigger somehow.

He reached the lobby and slowed to a halt. "Murphy fucking MacManus," he said, "and the unstoppable Connor. I had a feeling I hadn't seen the last of you two."

Murphy didn't know whether to shake his hand or to apologize, but Jake made the decision for him, crossing the distance in three long strides and crushing them both into a bear hug.

"I did lose the pool on _when_, though," Jake added. "You owe me twenty bucks. Each."

"Put it on my tab," Murphy muttered, immediately wishing he hadn't, but Jake's barrel chest shook with a chuckle, and he gave Murphy's neck a tight squeeze.

Connor pried himself loose. "It's good to see you, Jake."

"Aye," Murphy said when he could breathe. "Sorry it's been so long."

Jake looked at him seriously. "I'm sorry too, kid."

Connor stuck his hands in his pockets, rocked back on his heels. Zeke cleared his throat, "So, Jake…fresh canvas."

Jake's brows shot up in that familiar, dangerous way, but there was a hint of disbelief as well. "Is that really why you're here? For tats?"

Why did everyone keep asking them that?

"Not that stopping in isn't a trip in itself," Connor said. "But if you've got a minute, we have been rolling something around."

"That's not exactly what I meant," Jake said, sharing a little look with Zeke. Murphy felt his jaw tighten. Maybe it was the years of having Connor for a brother, but he hated not being in on the joke.

"Zeke says you've the picture books back in the office," Murphy said. "We could start there."

"That," Jake said, "is a great idea. Why don't you go on back-"

The phone rang, and Jake stopped to listen as Zeke answered it. Zeke put his hand over the mouthpiece, his silver-studded lips stretching into a grimace. "Guess who," he said to Jake.

Jake grumbled a curse. "This might take a minute," he said to Murphy and Connor as he took the phone. "Don't disappear."

Zeke hovered at the counter, eavesdropping. Connor began playing with his lighter, inching slowly toward the hall. He jerked his head, beckoning Murphy to come with him. Christ, he had the patience of a three year old.

"Can't you give him five minutes?" Murphy whispered. "Cut me a break, I'm still on eggshells here."

Connor kept moving towards the office. "So what's the deal with the countertop? I know you know."

"Fuck, Connor, we're on a mission here. Get your head in the game!"

"Come on, unfinished business? Who broke it, you? Jake?"

Murphy brushed past him, but Connor hurried ahead to block his way. "Spill it, Murph. Spill it or I swear to God I'll tell Jake what happened in his sterile little office that night you and Annie-"

"All right! Jesus, you're like a rabid dog." He was right outside the office door now, close enough to hear the Eagles playing inside on the radio. "It was right after she…you know. I figured if anyone, Jake would know where she was."

"And?"

"And so I asked him. And he wasn't very…forthcoming."

Connor's mouth dropped open.

"I sent him some cash to repair it," Murphy said, "but I don't know, maybe it wasn't enough. Maybe he never got it."

"Holy fucking shit. How did you-"

But Murphy would never hear the rest of Connor's question. Because that was when someone started singing.

The voice was female, and faintly raspy, like a radio deejay's; the accent definitely not local. Connor cocked his head to the side, his eyes narrowing. Gently, quietly, he pushed open the door.

The work counter lining the opposite wall of the small office was literally covered with photographs. In between a tower of albums and a small chrome radio sat a girl in a blue tee shirt and jeans who looked remarkably like the one in the picture Murphy kept in his wallet, upside down in a credit card slot where Connor wouldn't see.

She was sorting through a stack of photographs, humming along to the music. Her dark brown hair was twisted up into a messy ponytail, and the pencil that was stuck through it bobbed in time with the beat.

"Annie?"

The bouncing pencil stilled and the humming stopped, halfway through the last verse of _Hotel California_. Slowly, her eyes lifted. A picture slipped from her hand.

— ... —

"Well, if that don't top it all," Connor said. "The one and only Annie Lucas, live and in the flesh."

"Connor," she said, bending to pick up the photo. "What an…unexpected surprise." Her eyes flicked over to Murphy and he felt his neck grow warm. Why, oh why, hadn't he put on a clean pair of jeans this morning?

"Hi," she said.

His tongue seemed to be fused to the roof of his mouth. The clock over the door ticked loudly.

"Hi yourself," he managed.

Connor rolled his eyes to the ceiling and ambled inside. "Back for a visit, Annie? How long you in town this time?"

Connor's tone was friendly, but Murphy saw her expression harden. "For the foreseeable future," she said. "Good jobs aren't always easy to come by."

The foreseeable future. What did that mean? That she'd moved back to Boston. His heart and his stomach performed a strange tango that left him somewhat nauseated.

"What about you guys?" she asked. "I-I heard you'd left town."

"Holiday," Murphy said automatically, wondering if their apparent departure had anything to do with her decision to return. It wasn't a pleasant thought.

"Grapevine must be drying up in Southie," Connor said, cruising along the counter, browsing the stacks of photos. "Haven't heard a whisper about you."

A blush crept into her cheeks. "Oh, compared to other headlines, I'm sure I'm hardly worth a mention."

Murphy's heart skipped and he threw Connor a warning look. "How's the family, Annie? Your sister's well?"

She didn't answer right away. "Hope's doing fine," she said slowly. "You knew where I was?"

_Shit_.

Connor's eyes narrowed. "Well, of course he knew where you were-"

"Con, why don't you go check if Jake's off the phone."

Connor inclined his head toward the photos. "The office is a better place for a consult, don't you think?"

"I'll go," Annie said, sliding off the stool almost too willingly. She stopped when Murphy's hand touched her arm.

"It's all right, Connor doesn't mind. It'll give him a chance to browse through all that new flash art Zeke was telling us about."

Connor's scowl told Murphy he'd pay for this later. "Fine. You be sure and take a good look in here, though. Wouldn't want you to miss anything."

"I've got this, Con."

Connor's arched brows said he highly doubted it, but he left without another word.

And then they were alone.

The office felt so much smaller than he'd remembered. He inched away, along the counter as Connor had, trying to concentrate on the photographs before him.

He waited for her to speak first, to ask again about California and why she'd never heard from him if he'd known where she was. To apologize for the way she left. To ask about Rocco.

He waited, hating the silence but dreading the inevitable, while she busied herself straightening the stacks, clearing clutter into drawers and cabinets. A photo with a twisting devil's tail caught his eye, but upon closer inspection he saw that it was placed on an arm, not a chest. Inspired, he scanned more carefully. Maybe God would take pity on him and he'd simply stumble across the one he needed.

"How is it working for the old man?" he asked finally, his voice loud in his own ears. "I never thought he'd get that gun into your hands. Officially, that is." Unofficially was another story, as various locations on his own body could attest.

"I'm not working for him. Is that what you thought? I am here a lot helping out, but this isn't like a real job."

"Tattooing is a real job."

Annie smiled, and he felt himself grinning like a moron.

"What about you?" she asked. "You and Connor still fixing bikes over at Vinnie's?"

"We're not. Vinnie shut the place down a few years back, moved to Philly."

"Oh."

He could feel the job question still hanging in the air, but the truth wasn't an option and he couldn't bring himself to lie. "Have you a system here?" he asked instead, picking up an inch-high stack of photos. "I assume the madness has a method."

"Sort of," she said, moving a few steps closer. "We've only got about half of the books emptied, but what's out I've divided into categories. Can you believe for twenty years, he's had this stuff chronological? Just kept pasting in the new ones in behind. It's a wonder people ever found what they were looking for, all the hours they had to spend crammed onto those couches, pouring through the books."

"The looking's half the fun, you know that."

There were standing side by side now, and when she spoke she did not look up at him. "Is that really why you're here, Murphy? Another tattoo?"

"Where else would I go?"

It was a lame evasion, and he wasn't surprised when she didn't answer. She took a deep breath and moved ever so slightly away from him. "What've you got in mind? There's religious art over there, with a subset for crosses, and then another for Celtic style designs, though I can't make up my mind where Celtic crosses should go, so they're sort of all mixed in."

He suppressed a groan. This was classic Annie. The fact that half the books were yet to be emptied told him there was no way he was going to magically happen upon his needle in the haystack. He picked up another stack of pictures, thinking God was probably enjoying this. No pity for him, apparently.

"This one's to be a bit different," he said, "Why don't you give me the lay of the land and I'll see what jumps out at me." Would devils be with religious designs? With Annie in charge it was anyone's guess.

She frowned. "Why don't you give me a hint what you're looking for and I'll try to point you in the right direction."

Connor's cover story was his last resort. "Have you a collection of custom designs? It's to be a memorial, and I know Jake usually draws those up himself."

"A memorial," she repeated, "Who's it for?"

Their eyes locked, and his own stupidity slugged him in the stomach.

"No one you know," he said quickly, "Someone back home…Patrick…O'Reilly. A cousin. My second cousin. Once removed. You know, I think I'll go see if Connor's found anything." He glanced at the clock, seeing nothing but meaningless symbols and lines. "He's probably done with the flash by now." On impulse he snatched the closest album that was still full. "Mind if I borrow this for a minute?"

"Yes."

He waved her off, backing out the doorway. "I'll bring it right back then. Sorry to have interrupted. Next time I'll make an appointment. Great to see you again."

Album in hand, he fled up the hallway before she could respond, head down, fist balled, itching to knock himself unconscious. Whatever he told her now, whenever he saw her again, the subject was already brought up. Roc would hang there, bleeding between them, waiting to die all over again. Then would come the questions, and the answers he couldn't give her.

He was nearly running when he reached the lobby. Jake was on the phone and looking pissed. Zeke was at the display counter again, holding something silver up to Connor's ear and angling a mirror for him. Connor saw Murphy approach and slid out of Zeke's reach. "Success?"

Murphy smiled blandly, continuing out the door without stopping.

Connor hurried to catch him. "That was fast."

Murphy fished out his cigarettes and lit up, wedging the bulky album under one arm.

"Can I see it?" Connor asked.

"See what?"

"The picture, asshole. You kicked me out, the least you can do is show it to me."

An ache began to throb in Murphy's skull that had nothing to do with nicotine.

The phone in Connor's pocket trilled. "Smecker," he answered quietly, motioning Murphy to get in the car. "It's Connor, can't you fucking tell the difference by now?"

Inside, his face became serious, and he listened intently. "I see…Aye, makes sense I suppose….We're at the shop now…Did we locate the tattoo photo yet?" He looked at Murphy.

Murphy dumped the album in his lap.

"Still working on it. Let you know what turns up."

He snapped the phone closed. "Criminal records don't look promising. Smecker thinks this is our best shot." He started flipping pages in the album. "I can't believe she let you take this. We only need the one photo."

"I haven't exactly found it yet. And she doesn't exactly know I'm taking it. Would you get us out of here please?"

"You haven't found it? Then get your ass back in there! There were two other albums besides this one, plus five hundred more pictures on the counter!"

"It's in this book. It has to be."

"How the fuck do you know that?"

"Because I'm not going back. Now drive!"

.

...


	6. ID

**[Chapter 6: ID]**

.

"So, are you going to tell me what happened?" Connor asked, handing Murphy the album of tattoos back and starting up the LTD.

Murphy smoothed his fingers across the leather cover but couldn't bring himself to open it. "Nothing happened," he said. "Not a damn thing. T'was a grand little reunion until I used your brilliant cover story."

"The tat for Roc?" Connor's eyebrows rose. "What'd she say?

Murphy shrugged. He hadn't given her a chance to say anything. "It seemed as good a time to leave as any."

Connor ran a hand through his hair. "She does know, doesn't she, Murph? About Roc?"

"O'course she does." Probably. Hopefully.

His stomach churned and he told himself it was hunger—he still hadn't eaten breakfast. "Let's get some Jimmy Chan's and work on this at home."

...

An hour later, back at their apartment, Murphy pushed the pile of empty take-out boxes aside and began to thumb through the album of tattoos for a third time.

"Murph, I hate to say it."

"Don't say it."

"It's not in here, man. We're going to have to go back."

_Like hell_, Murphy thought. It had to be here. It _had_ to be. He just wasn't looking for the right thing. He had already scrutinized every devil, every demon, and every dragon between the covers. He had to be missing something.

He rolled his neck and turned the first page, again: a butterfly, a bulldog, a tribal armband, and a skull.

Next page: a shamrock, some kind of Chinese symbol, a flaming cross, and a flower.

Connor heaved a sigh and dragged his chair next to Murphy's.

Next page: two smoking guns, a barbed-wire heart, and a pin-up girl with a red streak in her hair – kind of like the one Annie used to have.

"You have to admit," Connor said thoughtfully, "she does look good."

For one absurd moment, Murphy thought he was talking about the pin-up girl. She was traditionally drawn, in a red teddy, garter, and stockings, and the artwork was decent, he supposed, other than the too-thick black outline that evidenced a heavy-handed artist. He took a closer look at her black and red-striped hair and noticed something interesting.

"She's a devil."

"Aye. Oh, you mean the picture." Connor leaned in to check it out. "Nice horns."

Something sparked inside Murphy, but he fought to ignore it, too afraid of jinxing himself.

_And where there are horns…_

The photo was bad – taken too closely, with too bright a flash in too dark a room, but you could still tell it was located on a man's right shoulder blade. And sure enough, the devil girl had a tail—one that twirled and twisted and disappeared into shadow underneath the man's right arm.

"Is that it?" Connor asked.

Murphy tried to pull the photo from its plastic pocket, but fumbled at the unexpected thickness.

"Is that the one?"

Irritated, Murphy yanked harder, tearing the plastic, and revealing the cause of the difficultly: there was another photo stacked under the first.

It showed the rest of the tail curving along the ribcage, coming to an end just under the right nipple, the barbs rounded to form a perfect black spade. Murphy closed his eyes, remembering the darkness of that night in the plaza, the driving rain…the blinding fury as he'd wrestled the hooded man to the ground. He'd caught sight of the tattoo long enough to lose the upper hand—not to mention the Beretta. He had no choice now but to turn his mistake into an advantage. But could he be absolutely sure…?

"Murph! Is it the right fucking one or not?"

"Aye, I think that it is." He allowed Connor to snatch it from his hand.

"Huh," Connor said, examining the picture closely. "We've been looking for monsters for three fucking hours-should've known 'twas a woman all along causing the trouble."

Murphy breathed a monumental sigh, stretching back in his chair. "What's the name on the back? The tat doesn't do us any good unless we know whose body it's on."

"Franklin Hayes," Connor read. "With a date of nine-fourteen-oh-five."

"Never heard of him," Murphy said, doing the math. "That was five years ago. I wonder if Jake would remember him."

"Or Annie. She'd have been a sophomore then."

"Not an option…" Murphy didn't allow Connor to develop the thought. He retrieved the cell phone from under a chopsticks wrapper, and selected the number under 'S'. "Let's see what Smecker can dig up."

The call connected after the first ring and a hard voice answered. "Talk."

"Smecker."

There was a second's pause, then the background noises faded, a hand pressing over the mouthpiece. A few seconds later, the agent was back, his voice quieter. "I can't take long, I'm at Scuderi's North Shore place with the second-string line-up."

Murphy sat up. "Find anything?"

"As far as this case is concerned, just a whole lot of nothing. 'Course these morons couldn't find a clue if it popped out of their fat asses and started dancing. How about you?"

"We found a name, but need an address. Think you can lend us a hand with that?"

"Holy fuck, that was fast. I ought to hire you full time."

Murphy smirked. "Job like that pays for shit."

"Can't be worse than packing meat," Smecker said. "So, who's our marked man?"

"A mister Franklin Hayes," Murphy said, giving him the date as well. "I don't know if that makes a difference."

Smecker repeated the information, and Murphy knew he was committing it to memory rather than writing it down. "Doesn't ring any bells. I'll have Greenly run him through the RMV records, see if he's got a Massachusetts driver's license. You're sure about this, you really believe it's the same guy? Seems too easy."

Easy, right. "The tail in the picture is the same one I saw on the hooded guy, no doubt."

"Guess we'll just have to hope it's one of a kind. Don't forget – he's our only lead in this convoluted mess. If anything happens to him-"

"Paul, come on now," Murphy said, "we only want to have a little chat with him."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

"Have a bit of faith, man! You'll get your turn. And when you're done…"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll worry about that later. Let me call Greenly. I'll let you know as soon as I have anything."

...

Telemundo's morning news show was already over, and but Connor left the TV on anyway.

Murphy walked into the living room as his brother propped his feet on the coffee table. "_Corazon Abierto_, Con? Really?"

"I'm not _watching_ it. If there's breaking news, they'll interrupt the show."

"Yeah. Okay." Murphy left him alone with his denial, and took the take-out trash down to the dumpster outside. Nothing like the aroma of aging Kung Pow chicken to freshen a bachelor pad.

"B Street," Connor said, snapping the phone closed when Murphy returned.

"I guess that was Greenly?"

"Can you believe this shit? Our friend Mr. Franklin Hayes lives in right here in Southie, couple of blocks from the church."

"Jesus, I was sure we'd find him in North End with his buddy Leo."

"That's not all. His license says he's one-fifty." Connor grinned. "You had that fucker by thirty pounds, but you couldn't pin him without taking his clothes off."

"Bullshit," Murphy said, remembering exactly how hard it had been to disarm the man. "No way he's only one-fifty. No, it was…like wrestling _your_ sorry ass, only with more muscle. Not so bony and soft around the edges."

"Yeah, whatever," Connor muttered, consulting the scrap of paper he'd used to take notes. "Height: five-eleven, and he's got brown hair, hazel eyes. Greenly's got a print out of the ID picture for us. He's to give us a call tonight when he gets off."

"Tonight?" Murphy asked, surprised. "We need to take this guy out _before_ he has a chance to hurt anyone else."

"Do you see a fax machine around here? This isn't the Batcave, in case you haven't noticed."

"I suppose us swinging by the station's not the best idea."

"We'll have him meet us at the church," Connor said, disappearing into the extra bedroom. "Father Tim will keep the doors open, and he won't ask any questions."

"We've got his address at least, though, don't we?" Murphy asked, watching his brother count out hundred-dollar bills from the rapidly shrinking stash they kept in a duffel in the closet. "We can scope it out while we're waiting. Maybe we'll get lucky. Did Greenly give you anything else?"

"He did, although I'm not sure what it means. He said the guy has 'gnarly' hair. I think that's one of those Annie words. I was afraid to ask if that was bad or good."

"Bad, would be my guess."

"I guess we'll find out soon enough," Connor said, shoving the duffel back into the closet. "Come on. We've got just enough time to do a little shopping."

"Shopping? I don't think this is a good time for-"

Connor laughed. "Believe me, you'll enjoy this. We're going to go buy you a new toy."

...

_**Author's Note**: Feedback is my drug! Please support my habit._


	7. Seamus

**[Chapter 7: Seamus]**

.

At eleven in the morning, Callaghan's Pub was closed and would be for another five hours. It had no windows in the front, so when Connor stopped outside and flipped a birdie at the worn brick wall, a passing couple gave him a strange look and hurried on by. The small camera fixed above a wrought iron sconce gave no sign of recognition, but the immediate slunk of the locks releasing was as good as being welcomed home by an old friend.

Murphy followed his brother inside and waited for his eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness. The shaft of light from the open door cut through the empty stillness, illuminating floating particles of dust that were the only sign of life in the slumbering pub. Half a dozen round tables were packed into the narrow space with stools tucked under the walnut bar along the right side.

Footfalls on the hardwood floor echoed from the back of the long room. "Remote security controls," a disembodied voice called. "Just installed 'em." The accent was slightly Americanized, like his and Connor's had become, but there was no denying it hailed from the only place they could ever call home.

The man stepped into the light, revealing angled features covered with dark stubble. From under his cap, equally dark curls threatened to escape. "Fuckin' brilliant, right?" he said.

"Fucking lazy is what it is, Seamus," Connor said, grasping the man's extended hand and giving it a hearty shake. "Already you sleep through the day just so you can abuse your liver all night. Now you never even have to get off your ass."

Seamus scoffed. "What are you, my ma? Next you'll be nagging on me to make it to mass."

"I happen to know your Aunt Gloria's got that job wrapped up tight," Murphy said, pumping Seamus' hand but stopping short of pulling him into a hug. "How long _has_ it been, now, lad? Come, confess to your friends over a pint."

"Always looking for a handout—you bastards never change." Seamus headed around behind the bar. Connor and Murphy took their pick of the worn leather-covered stools while he filled three glasses. He set the pints before them, the Guinness even blacker in the low light.

Seamus held his own beer in two hands, not drinking it, but watching them. "Haven't seen you around for a while," he said, "No troubles I hope?"

Murphy looked at Connor and they both drank. Would Seamus have guessed? Without a doubt, Murphy thought, the idea speeding up his heart uncomfortably. He'd never utter a word of it, of course, not even as a trite speculation. His own affairs were just as damaging, and far more easily substantiated. No, their secrets were safe amongst each other.

"Nothing we couldn't handle," Connor said. "With our thanks to you."

Seamus sipped his beer. "Always happy to help out my countrymen."

"And we're much obliged," Murphy said. "You'll let us know if there's ever anything we can-"

"Even exchange," Seamus said, waving him off. "But speaking of business…You didn't come to my place before the lunch hour just to ask how my ma's gettin' on."

Connor stood, Murphy following after he drained his glass. "We didn't."

Seamus smiled and led the way into the tiny office off the rear of the bar. There was a single, six-inch video monitor next to a bulky, yellowed computer and a haphazard stack of paperwork that took up nearly all of the small desk's workspace. Seamus sat in the worn chair and reached his hand deep inside the top drawer. A faint clicking sound came from the storage closet across from the desk. Seamus opened the narrow wooden closet door, moved aside a crate full of pilsner glasses on the wall-mounted shelf, and stood there for a moment with his back to them. There was more clicking, and Murphy glanced at Connor, knowing his brother would be trying his best not to show how much he loved this part. Seamus stepped back and a three-foot section of the wall behind the shelf swung open to reveal a staircase he and Connor had heard rumors about for years, but had only themselves descended one time in nearly a decade of friendship.

They followed Seamus down the stairs, through a low-ceilinged storage cellar and into a second, rear room where the true business took place. Murphy stepped through the grated door, inhaling as the smell of dank basement gave way to the odor of gun oil and metal. Seamus hit a switch on the concrete wall and fluorescent lights flickered on. The peeling orange and green paint made a strangely charming background for the deadliest weapons arsenal this side of the Charles River.

Connor and Murphy browsed for a good two minutes in revered, elated silence until Murphy noticed something troubling. "I don't see any of those Beretta M-nines," he said. "You keeping them somewhere else?"

Seamus relaxed onto his couch, spreading his arms out wide across the cushions. "You're the second person this week to ask for one of those. I'm afraid my inventory's a bit low at the present time. Can you wait until next week? I should be up to snuff again by then."

Murphy pretended to consider. "I'd rather not. What else have you got in the way of carrying?"

Seamus pursed his lips and Murphy saw the salesman gears turning. "In a word – discreet. Efficient, reliable. Cheaper than the Beretta and the easiest carry you ever tried." He pulled a box from under one of the folding tables and removed the lid.

Inside lay a miniature black pistol nestled like some sort of precious collectible in a bed of gray foam padding.

Connor bit his lip hard.

"Come on, Seamus," Murphy said. "Where's the good shit? The Glocks, the Colts?"

Seamus shrugged. "Business is good, what can I say? The Man in the north end's been upping his prices, so I got every wannabe wiseguy and his brother coming to me. And you know—money is money, but I still got standards. I ain't going to sell to just any wop-" He stopped suddenly, either catching himself or catching the look that must have shown on Murphy's face. "Fuck, man, I didn't mean-"

"It's all right," Connor said.

Seamus cleared his throat. "So Murphy, you'll never guess who I ran into at K & 8th last week," he said, lifting the gun from the padding. "She was buying steaks and some of those wee oranges that come in a bag."

Murphy could feel Connor smirk without even looking.

Seamus handed Murphy the tiny gun. "Oh," Murphy said, taking it reluctantly. "You're serious."

It fit entirely within his open palm. He tried the trigger to see if his finger would fit. Barely.

"I know it's not what you're used to," Seamus said.

"Oh, surely it is," Murphy said. "I had one just like it when I was six."

"Sure and you can laugh, MacManus, but I go through more of these than any other make of pistol, believe it or not. You can't beat it for a concealed carry."

"He's right, Murph," Connor said. "It'll fit nicely in both your purse and your bra – it's a win-win."

"Take it or leave it," Seamus said. "It's all I've got until next week."

"Fine," Murphy said. "Ammo?"

"I'll throw it in no charge, with an extra clip. In deference to your manhood."

"Seamus-"

"Come back next week. Let me know how you like it, see if you still want that Beretta."

Murphy sighed. "You're a decent man, Callaghan."

"So I'm told, though the word never does seem to get back to my ma," Seamus said, tucking their purchase into a small black duffel. "Sure you don't want to know who it was I saw at the market?"

"Let me guess-brown hair, green eyes, would spit on my cold dead body if it were lying in the street?"

Seamus grinned. "So you've seen her already, then. How'd that go?"

Connor counted out the payment and Murphy took the bag. "Let's just say I feel better now that I have a gun."

.

.


	8. Frankie

**[Chapter 8: Frankie]**

.

"You see any house numbers?" Connor asked later that night as they took a recon cruise along B street.

Murphy squinted, barely able to make them out against the aging bricks. "These are all odds—it'll be on your side."

Connor leaned forward to peer through the window. "Here's the place, three seventy-two. See it, the blue one? Unit A ought to be the first floor."

All of the buildings were triple-deckers, butted up an identical house on one side, with narrow four-foot wide service alleys along the other. The blue house was the left hand side of one pair.

A maroon Dodge van was parked at the steps leading up to the front door of Unit A. Behind tattered blinds, its windows were dark. "No white Sentra," Murphy observed.

"He's working late, remember."

"It doesn't feel right," Murphy said. "That cold-blooded bastard all cozied up in this neighborhood. Look at the toys on the porches. Kids live here."

"Yeah, I see the toys," Connor said. "And the beer cans and the weeds and the rusted up cars. Working people live here. Shit, _we_ bloody well could live here."

Murphy eyed the white column holding up the porch. Someone had tacked what appeared to be a Lost Cat sign on it. "I don't know," he said. "What did Greenly find on his record?"

"Couple hits for possession, but nothing that stuck." Connor showed a flash of white teeth in the darkness. "I'm thinking an indictment for homicide ought to."

In his mind Murphy could hear the hooded man's laughter. "Doesn't it kill you to let it get that far?"

Connor shook his head, turning the car around so they could cruise by again from the opposite direction. "Only 'cause Smecker needs him."

"Smecker doesn't need _him_," Murphy said. "He needs the files. Franklin fucking Hayes doesn't even know where they are."

"Hayes wants those files for a reason. He obviously knows about something no one else does, and whatever it is, Smecker's convinced it'll bring down the house."

"Smecker's sharp. He can find the lawyer's files on his own. Hell, Scud was probably lugging them around in that briefcase."

Murphy rolled his window down as they came up on the house again. In the intermittent calm between gusts of wind, he could hear a man and woman arguing and someone's TV cranked up on ESPN—probably to drown out the argument. In a nearby house, a child cried, and a motorcycle vroomed in the distance.

"You sure this is the right address?" Murphy asked.

Connor rolled his eyes. "Stow it," he said. "Greenly's a tool, but he knows how to do his job."

"All I'm saying is look how many times we've moved in eight years. We've never notified the RMV."

"It's the right house," Connor said, picking up the photo lying on the console between them. "If it's the right man."

"I know what I saw, Connor. It's the same ink. Check the book again if you want."

Connor tossed the photo on the dash. "No offense, but I think I'll wait and see what Greenly dug up from the great state of Massachusetts."

"More faith in the government than in your own brother. Sad thing, that."

"Don't start with me," Connor said, shifting into gear. "Any other time, I'd take your word for it."

"Any other time?" Murphy questioned flatly.

"That's right," Connor said, meeting Murphy's eyes evenly. "Any other time you weren't preoccupied with your ex-girlfriend while searching for an old snapshot that may or may not match the blur of ink you saw while tackling some guy in an alley, at night, in the rain."

Murphy watched an old man smoking on a second-floor balcony, and his head began to ache. "I wasn't pre-occupied."

"Yeah right."

Murphy pinched the bridge of his nose. "Connor, for once in your life, just leave it alone, all right? It was three goddamn years ago. I'm over it."

"Clearly."

"Annie just might be a little upset because I-I never called to tell her about Roc."

"You never _called_ her?" Connor laughed. "Well, jackass, what did you expect from her then?"

"Hey, you never called her either. She was your friend, too."

"Yeah, well. That was before."

"Before."

"Aye, before. Forgive me if my loyalty lies a bit closer to home."

Murphy rubbed his neck, unsure what to say to that. If only things could truly be as black and white as Connor saw them. "I should have called her," Murphy said. "I know I should have-but it's not like she left a fucking phone number!"

"Huh." Connor frowned, shifting in his seat. "After California, I thought…I'm surprised she didn't tell you."

"Tell me what?"

Connor rubbed a hand over his lips, the way Murphy had seen him do more than once outside the door of the parish confessional. He was quiet for a full block, and seemed to be focused intensely on his driving. Suddenly he steered wide to the right, then spun the boat-like LTD into a U-turn, jolting Murphy when the right-front tire popped up over the curb.

"Con, what the fuck?" A driver they'd cut off blared his horn and swerved around them.

Connor gunned it, his eyes never leaving the road. "That's him, that's the white Sentra. There-" he said, pointing. "Two cars up, square-ish taillights, see him?"

"Holy shit, nicely done!" he sat up straighter, suddenly more awake than he'd been all day. "Watch it, he's turning onto B."

"Told you it was the right address."

"Yeah, yeah. Don't get too close."

They followed the white Sentra back through the vehicle-lined streets, which seemed even more crowded now than they'd been only a few minutes before. At the blue house, the driver pulled to a stop next to the van, leaving the car double-parked and still running in the middle of the street. He was unremarkable in a dark jacket, beanie and jeans as he hurried up the steps and into the house.

They hovered in the LTD, a hundred feet back.

"Pull up right there," Murphy told him as a car backed out of the service alley next to the party house, two down from the blue one.

"No way, they're having a right pisser in there. We'll get boxed in, the way these kids are coming and going."

"Damn it, Connor, can't you see his engine's still running? He's on his way somewhere right now! Probably just stopping in to get his gun."

"You mean your gun."

"Fuck, that's right. Park this thing already so we can stop him before he goes and shoots someone with it!"

"All right, fine." Connor reversed into the alley, inching them backwards until they were nestled between low hedges on either side.

They strode up the sidewalk, heads down, hands in pockets. Without his wool pea coat, which after three days was still damp, the wind penetrated deeper, in sharp gusts that cut through the black cotton of his sweatshirt so that he may as well have worn nothing at all. Loose inside the shoulder holster, the purse pistol tapped against his chest as he walked. Music pounded from the white house. He lit two cigarettes and handed one to Connor, avoiding eye contact with the girls loitering on the porch. The air was humid, even with the wind, and it was tinged with a faint, acrid smell of garbage.

"What were you saying before?" Murphy asked, pausing to crush out his cigarette. "That Annie didn't tell me."

"It's not a big deal," Connor said. "It was just that I may have…it's possible I forgot to tell you that she called."

"I knew she called. It was on the machine. I deleted it."

"Well, she called back." Connor said, clearing his throat. "I told her you didn't want to talk."

Murphy stumbled on the uneven sidewalk. "You did what?"

Connor kept walking, studying the buildings. "I think I used to see a girl lived in a house around here. First floor had a back door to a patio where they keep the trash bins for all three units. No one should pay us any mind back there."

He detoured as they came up on the Sentra, using the van at the curb for cover while he crept close enough to check the license plate.

"So far so good," he said, and led the way into the service alley. "It's the right car at least."

Murphy followed. "She left her number with you?"

Connor's lips pursed, which Murphy took as a _yes_.

"She left a message with her number but you didn't see fit to tell me."

Connor threw a glare over his shoulder and tripped on a rolled up carpet. "It was for your own good. Don't go getting all bent now-I _assumed_ everything came out when you went to find her. You're the one that refuses to talk about it."

"So it's my fault you lied to me…for my own good."

"I was trying to protect you. Jesus, get some perspective. You said it was over, I just passed on the message. Eventually she got the hint."

Connor moved ahead, rounding the back corner, hopping a sagging lattice fence and sneaking across the cracked concrete. A few houses down someone's lap dog raised a sharp, high-pitched alarm. Connor hurried to the blue house's back door. Next to the door a stack of flower pots whose plants had long since died now overflowed with cigarette butts and empty beer cans. Murphy followed and crouched against the brick wall beside him.

"What do you mean _eventually_? How many times did she call?"

Connor peeked through the door's single, uncurtained window. "Kitchen-past that, the living room. Christ, what a hole."

"How many times, Connor?"

"Does it matter? You found her anyway, didn't you?" Connor pulled on his mask irritably. "And you still came back alone."

Liquid fire shot through Murphy's veins, coupled with the buzz of hyperawareness he always felt before bullets began to fly. His stood, aware but numbly unconcerned that he could be clearly seen through the window if the man they were seeking entered the kitchen.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Connor hissed. "Put your goddamn mask on!"

"Twice at least. Three times?"

"Jesus, Murphy, we can talk about this _later_!"

"Four?" Murphy reached under his sweatshirt and readied the purse pistol.

Connor blew out a sigh. "I don't know exactly. Our phone got shut off about a week after if you remember, so-"

"Take a guess. Something close to the truth if you don't mind."

Connor's eyes darkened. Murphy let his hand rest on the doorknob.

When Connor answered it was through clenched teeth. "A dozen, maybe more. Sometimes it was twice a day."

Connor looked away, into the kitchen. His mouth was still moving, but the freight train had returned and Murphy couldn't make out what he was saying. And then Connor was flying backwards and flower pots were crashing on concrete and dogs were barking and somewhere a neighbor was yelling to keep it down. A siren whooped and Murphy's hand found the mask in his pocket.

He yanked it on just as the man with the black beanie stepped into the kitchen: tall and gangly and white, in a black jacket, yellow tee shirt and jeans, with a ring in his rose and stringy bleached blonde hair poking out from under his beanie.

Murphy burst through the door, crossed the room in three strides and had the man face down on the linoleum before he could even put down his can of Red Stripe.

"Surprise," Murphy said, crushing a boot on the back of his neck and digging the purse pistol's tiny barrel into the beanie. "Remember me? We didn't get a chance to chat last time, but don't worry, tonight we're going to have a nice, long visit. First thing's first though, you've got something that doesn't belong to you."

The man twisted his face from the smear of spilled beer. "Take it easy, man! My shit's in the other room."

Murphy knew it the moment he opened his mouth: it was not the man from the alley. The accent was more Southie, the pitch higher, the tone less even. Everything about it was wrong.

Somewhere, in a fraying corner of his mind, the simple plan began to unravel.

Outside, the yapper dog was going berserk. Murphy looked to the open back door for any sign of Connor. There was only darkness.

Murphy dragged his hostage to his feet and forced him into the living room, where the blinds were still closed. "Your name's Franklin?" Murphy asked, pushing him to his knees. "Franklin Hayes?"

"Who the fuck wants to know?" he shot back, his voice cracking as he twisted to get a look. Murphy pushed the gun against his skull. "Yeah, I'm Frankie," he whimpered, his gaze dropping to the blue glass bong and the bag of weed on the coffee table in front of him. "Shit. I knew this was going to happen. He sent you, didn't he? Jake sent you for a measly two hundred bucks of petty cash."

"Petty cash," Murphy sputtered, noticing now the tattoos peeking out from the collar of Frankie's jacket and on the backs of his hands. "Jake doesn't send hired muscle for petty cash. He'll kick your dumb ass himself. Nobody steals from Jake Wheeler."

"I'm sorry! But business is in the tank, and I got expenses, you know? And anyway, he never touches it now that he's sober—he never misses it!"

"Never? You mean you've ripped him off before?" Murphy's arm flew automatically, whacking him upside the head with the purse pistol-swallowing a curse when his finger smashed between Frankie's head and the gun. The thing was so small there was no other way to hold it. If only he had the Berretta back – of course, since this clearly wasn't the hooded man, he wouldn't be getting it back at all now.

He whacked Frankie again.

"Ow!" Frankie flinched, holding his head with both hands. "I'm sorry, all right? Just tell Jake-"

"Jake didn't send me. Your boss is nothing compared to mine. Take off your shirt." Frankie hesitated. Murphy jabbed him again with the pistol.

"All right, fine! Fuck…" Frankie started to do as he was told, shrugging out of the jacket, and dropping it on the floor beside him.

He scowled up at Murphy. "Why the hell do you want-"

Murphy gripped a handful of yellow shirt between Frankie's shoulder blades and tugged, leaving it tangled around his head, exposing his torso. He pressed his mask down around his eyes and squinted in the dim light. There was the devil-costumed pin-up girl and there was her long, twisting tail. It was exactly the same as the photo. His stomach soured. It could only mean one thing, the thing he'd feared most– he'd found the right tattoo. But on the wrong man.

He glanced toward the kitchen—still no sign of Connor.

"I'm going to ask you some questions, Frankie. You tell me what I want to know, and I promise not to shoot your punk ass, got it?"

Frankie nodded.

"You get this girlie tat from your boss, Frankie? Custom job?"

"Um, not exactly," Frankie said from under the shirt. "My friend needed to practice for his license and he'd seen this wicked awesome design…"

"Whose design? Where did he see it?"

"I don't know," Frankie said, turning his buried head slightly. "He just knew it was one of Jake's, so we found the Polaroid and copied it. It wasn't that easy, either, because-"

"Just tell me where to find the picture, asshole, before I decide you're not worth the trouble."

"I don't know, man! Probably I put it back in the book. The black one I think."

"They're all black, genius!"

Frankie yanked his tangled shirt down off his face. "Then I guess you're shit out of luck, Paddy-ass."

Murphy pinched the ring in his nose and pulled up until Frankie was looking at the ceiling.

"It was a long time ago!" Frankie said, his voice hiking up an octave, "You can't expect me to remember now!"

Ever so slowly, Murphy twisted the nose ring. "Is this a solid circle, or is it like one of those horseshoe shaped thingys?"

Frankie's mouth clamped shut, his eyes beginning to water. Murphy whispered in his ear, "Don't make me get curious."

Out front, a horn honked, making Frankie jump – then wince.

Murphy let go of the ring, but tapped Frankie's head with the gun again as a reminder. "You're _sure_ you put the picture back."

Frankie sniffed. "Maybe I did, maybe I didn't." Then his bare shoulders hunched, expecting a blow that Murphy managed to restrain. "It's kinda hard to remember, you know?"

Murphy eyed the weed, "I'll bet," he said. "Where's Jake's money?"

"Aw, come on, man! I told you about the tat, didn't I?"

Out of patience, Murphy pushed his face onto the coffee table and searched his pockets, finding a roll of bills, Murphy guessed about three hundred dollars.

"You steal the rest of this from Jake, too?"

"I told you, he never misses it!"

"And I'm sure you won't either."

Suddenly, there was a sharp knock at the front door. "Frankie?" a voice called, sounding annoyed. "What the hell are you doing in there?"

Frankie squirmed. Murphy dropped the money, clapping his hand over Frankie's mouth. "Don't even think about it," he hissed. He glanced toward the kitchen again—Christ, how hard had he hit Connor?

"Come on, man!" The voice at the door called. It was somewhat familiar. The doorknob turned, the hinges creaking. "Grab your stash and let's go before your piece of shit Nissan overheats and the cops—holy _shit_."

Murphy's eyes rose to the silver-studded face at the door. "Fuckin' hell."

"Zeke!" Frankie shouted.

Connor flew by, hurtling the couch, slamming into the door.

"Frankie!" Zeke shouted, managing to push it back before it latched.

Murphy aimed the purse pistol at the door, and Connor threw a shoulder against it, his eyes on Frankie. His mouth opened, but then he glanced up at Murphy and closed it again.

Murphy caught a blur of movement below him—a moment too late.

It felt like a car crashing into the side of his head. Shock-waves reverberated through his skull. He staggered back, blinking stars from his vision, hearing Connor grunt with effort, then the door latch and the _thunk_ and rattle of the deadbolt and chain. Zeke pounded, shouting from the other side.

Murphy's hand felt his head—the ski mask was wet, but not with blood. It was cold. And it smelled – Christ, it was awful. A sharp, rotten stench like food left out and forgotten for a week. Frankie tripped over his jacket, and half-ran, half-crawled away through chunks of blue, shiny glass now scattered across the stained carpet. Gritting his teeth, Murphy took him down with a kick to the back of his knees.

Connor jumped on him, forcing him to the ground, then leaned sideways to get a look at Frankie's contorting face.

"Are you sure this is him?" he asked, glaring at Murphy with one eye—the left was bright red and swollen half-shut.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Murphy said, twisting Frankie's arm behind his back. "No, it's not him. Try using both your eyes, Rocky."

Connor caught Frankie's other hand. "This is the last time you're charge of anything," he told Murphy.

"Who the fuck are you guys?" Frankie moaned, his face in the carpet. "Man, this is so fucked up."

"You have no idea," Connor said. "Jesus, what's that nasty smell?"

"Fuck you," Murphy said. "Don't talk to me."

Connor was gripping both of Frankie's hands, glancing around the shit-hole of a living room. "Fuck! Where's the fucking rope when I need it!"

"Fuck your fucking rope," Murphy said. "This dick-weed won't be any trouble." He cocked the purse pistol right next to Frankie's ear.

"I won't!" Frankie cried. "I won't follow you, I swear. I won't even move. Just don't shoot me, please."

The whoop of a siren made everyone jump; damn Frankie and his double-parked Sentra!

"Move and you're fucking dead!" Connor told Frankie. They made a run for the back door, Murphy remembering at the last second to scoop up Jake's stolen money.

Unable to go back up the alley the way they came, they jumped the fence on the opposite side of the patio, Murphy's head pounding with every step….

.

*****To be continued in Chapter 9*****


	9. Sanctuary

**[Chapter 9: Sanctuary]**

What was with these people and their shite-quality lattice? The fences, if you could call them that, weren't tall enough to keep anyone out, so Murphy had to assume they were decorative—but since their owners were apparently too cheap to pay for posts to support them they inevitably sagged and warped, making them anything but decorative, and a royal pain in the ass for unsuspecting felons trying to flee the police.

Hopping on one foot while he detangled the other, Murphy felt the wetness in his ski mask seep lower and lower until it dribbled into his eye with a vicious sting. He clapped a hand over the eye, blinking furiously as he waited for Connor at the back of the alley where they'd left the LTD.

"Gimmie the keys," he said, smacking his brother on the arm when Connor finally caught up. "I'm driving."

"Fuck you," Connor panted, stumbling past him up. "I've got the keys, so I—oh, for the love of Jesus _fucking_ Christ. We're blocked in. I fucking told you this would happen if we parked here!"

"Shit. Fuck!" And they couldn't reverse out—although it'd be mighty satisfying to flatten those stupid, sagging fences if he could. Murphy pressed a hand to his temple, his mind reeling. They didn't have _time_ for this. "Come on," he said. "Doc's is a couple blocks that way. We'll come 'round later for the car."

All the lights were on when he glanced back at Frankie's house and he could already hear sirens in the distance. They were cutting it close—_Lord, please don't let us go down like this. _

He took the lead and jockeyed over the next fence—a slightly less saggy one with enough rebound to land a magnificent whack between his legs. He groaned and cupped himself, cursing his brother's laughter—until Connor tripped on a pile of trash bags and tumbled on top of him, taking them both to the ground. His shoulder hit something plastic—a dog dish.

"Get off me, you fuck!"

"Fuck you-"

A yapping in his ear drowned out whatever else Connor was saying. Inside the house, a gruff voice shouted to keep it down.

"We're leaving, we're leaving!"

"Ow! Let go of me, you little mongrel."

Connor shook his leg, tossing the dog around like a toy, but the creature had a death grip on his shoelace. It growled as it flew, baring its teeth. Connor reached for it, and it when it released its hold to snap at him, Murphy grasped it by the tail and flung it onto the garbage heap where it landed with a squeak.

"This is fucking ridiculous," Connor said, getting to his feet with a groan. Murphy followed him, rolling over the fence and turning into the next available alley. There were people ahead, milling around the parked cars and on the sidewalk. The party was breaking up—probably due in no small part to the growing cluster of flashing lights outside Frankie's house.

One of the black-and-whites cruised their way, stopping a group of kids as they headed to their cars.

"Damn it," Murphy said, heart pounding as he started for the sidewalk in the opposite direction. "Come on, we can ditch this party too."

"Wait," Connor said, jerking him back by his hood and yanking the ski mask from his head. "Dumb ass."

Murphy snatched the mask back and shoved it in his pocket. The side of his head stung where the glass had shattered, the pain sharpening as the night breeze chilled his sweat-soaked skin.

Headlights swung around the corner and they pressed into a darkened doorway until the car passed—it was another cruiser.

"Damn," Murphy said. "How did they all get here so fast?"

"Probably got the K-9's following your scent." Connor wrinkled his nose. "That's some seriously foul shit, I tell you. It's like you fell in a sewer and died."

Murphy ignored him, glancing around at the crowd. "We're never going to make it Doc's, Con. Should we hole up here for a while?"

"I don't think I can last another five minutes with your stank."

"Oh, quit your whining, it's not that bad." Murphy sniffed his sweatshirt and instantly regretted it. "All right, so it is. It's the fucking bong water."

"I think it's toxic."

"I think you deserve it, considering you could have warned me."

Connor's grin shone in the moonlight. "What are you talking about? I saw him reach for it. I didn't know he was going to obliterate it on your face."

Another siren whooped and Murphy jumped. The swarm of patrols was growing by the minute. They really weren't going to be able to make it to Doc's.

It was time to call in the big guns.

"Come on," Murphy said. "I know where we can go. A block up, and around the corner."

It took Connor's pathetic sense of direction a few moments to catch up. "The church? It'll be locked up tight this time of night."

"Well, start praying that Father Tim's got a spare key under the doormat. We're out of options."

Connor kept pace silently—and their collective prayers must have been heard because when they rounded the corner, the lights were shining in God's house. Murphy nearly stumbled under the wash of relief when he knocked on the side door and heard shuffling footsteps inside.

Sister Margaret opened it cautiously, and a hand flew to her open lips. "Connor and—Murphy, dear Lord, what's happened to you?

"Oh, the smell," Murphy said, quickly following Connor past her into the chapel. "I know. Try not to stand too close."

Connor glanced at him and did a double take. He threw an arm around Murphy's shoulders and steered him toward the lobby. "Not to worry, Sister, I'll take care of him."

"Is it really that bad?" Murphy asked him.

Sister Margaret hurried after them, wringing her hands. "Father Timothy will be in the confessional. I'll get him."

"No, don't bother him," Connor said, picking up speed. "We'll just clean ourselves up and be on our way."

Murphy sniffed his sweatshirt again. His nose must have gone numb from the abuse.

"It's not the smell, jackass," Connor hissed. "It the bloody mess your head's making."

Murphy touched his head and pulled away fingers smeared crimson. That explained the panic on Sister Margaret's normally stoic face. "Damn."

Connor hurried him into the men's room where he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Holy mother, he was like something from a horror movie. What he'd thought was bong water dripping into his eye had actually been blood. Now pooled and dried it made him look like he'd lost one hell of a fight. It was a small concession that Connor's eye looked even worse.

Pressing his hair down and leaning into the mirror, he cringed at the inch-long gash. It was hard to tell how deep since the blood was still flowing. "Fuck. I'm going to kill that little punk." He tried to wash the blood off of his face and neck, succeeding mostly in spattering red over all the nearby porcelain.

"Stop the bleeding first," Connor said, handing him a wad of paper towels. "And be quick about it – Maggie's making me nervous. We need to keep moving."

Murphy pressed the mass of paper to his head and leaned against the wall. "We'd have lost them if you didn't jump fences like a little girl."

"Excuse me if my depth perception's off, what with trying to see out of _one eye_ and all. Anyway, they shouldn't trouble us much once we're out of the neighborhood. Nobody's going to work too hard for the likes of Frankie Hayes. Even if he does have a brilliant tattoo."

"Don't even start with me. I made a mistake. At least mine was an honest one."

Connor gingerly touched his left eye, which had swollen completely shut. "Christ, _that_ again? That was not a mistake," he said. "I'd do it again if I had to."

"_Veritas_ – what is it, like a private joke to you? Maybe we should get Jake to add the Webster's definition on your next finger."

"You mean this finger? Get over yourself. You didn't want to know. You didn't _delete_ Annie's message- you threw our answering machine out a five-story window!"

"That was my mistake. Should've thrown you."

"Been there, done that, little brother. And as always, just to save your sorry ass."

Murphy pressed a fresh towel onto the cut, gritting his teeth. It hurt like a bitch to hold the paper on it, and the bleeding had hardly slowed, not that there was any point complaining about it to Connor. He slid down the wall to sit on the floor, resting his head against the cold tile wall. "What's your point?"

"My point is," Connor said, crossing the room to use the urinal, "that I'm not taking the blame for your Annie disaster, so stop dumping it on me. We both know you've a fine talent for screwing things up all by yourself. Be a man for once and deal with it."

"First of all –fuck you. Second, are we talking about Annie, or Frankie's tattoo?

"Take your pick."

"I told you – I_ know _what I_ saw_. I'll just have to go back and find the original Polaroid – and don't give me that look. I'll go when Annie's not there. She's got some great new job now, so she can't be there all the time."

"Meanwhile, our mystery man is running free, mowing down whoever gets in his way."

"You got a better idea, I'm listening."

"Yeah, I've got a better idea. We hit the shop first thing tomorrow morning, and we don't leave until we find it. You make nice with the little woman and I don't care if you have to kiss her ass from here to L.A. You do what you have to do because only the picture matters. We have Smecker run the name, and once we _verify_ the ID-"

The bathroom door creaked open. Sister Margaret spoke, her face averted, "Gentlemen? Help has arrived. Is it all right to come in?"

"Uh…"

Before Murphy could haul himself off the floor, two women in navy blue uniforms breezed into the restroom.

"Jesus," Connor muttered, fumbling to fasten his pants.

Murphy looked from one uniform to the other, heart skipping, not sure who he was more surprised to see: Leah Solomon or Annie Lucas.

Leah strolled in, blonde ponytail swinging, handheld radio apparently recovered and back on her hip.

Her eyes fell on Connor first, quickly assessing his swollen eye, then zeroed in on Murphy's bloody head. Catching sight of the quarter-sized purple bruise on her own cheek, he swallowed, forcing himself to stay relaxed. There was no way she could recognize them from the plaza– they'd had their masks on the entire time.

Annie stopped short, eyes narrowing. He wouldn't have thought it possible, but she looked even less happy to see him now than she had that morning.

"Murphy? Connor? What are you doing here?"

"This is the men's room," Connor said. "What are _you_ doing here?

"You know each other?" Leah asked, surprised. "This is the third call today. You make friends fast."

Annie gave a little laugh that felt suspiciously insulting and set down the medical bag she was carrying. "Who've you been making friends with, Murph? This is a little overboard for a Monday night, even for you."

"What, this little scratch? This isn't why you're here. Connor accidentally punched himself in the face." In his mind he scrambled for a believable excuse – a fib about McGinty's would be too easily exposed – but Annie was suddenly standing over him, one leg in his lap, her thigh just touching his shoulder, and his brain stalled.

"McGinty's? Blackthorns?" she guessed, then sniffed. "Ugh. I thought that smell was just the bathroom."

"It just so happens," Connor said, "that we were on our way here to the church. Murph was lighting a smoke and didn't see the fire hydrant." He gave a chuckle so genuine Murphy knew he was picturing the actual incident. "Landed ass-up in the gutter. God, I wish you could have seen it."

"Me too," Annie said. "Truly."

Leah studied Murphy, then Connor, like she was trying to figure something out.

"You know, this isn't necessary," Murphy said, futilely leaning away from Annie's brain-scrambling warmth. "Really, it's just a scratch."

"Mm-hmm. And the Big Dig's just a little roadwork." She brushed his hair to the side and lifted his hand lightly. He flinched at the touch, accidentally squeezing the soaked towel in his fist. A gush of blood poured down the side of his face.

Annie's grip tightened, then suddenly she dropped his hand and stepped away. "Yep, it's a beauty all right. He'll need stitches," she said to Leah, "Where should we send them? Fourth and Main?"

Leah shook her head. "This time of night, most of the urgent cares are closed," she said. "Mass Gen will be your best bet." Garbled words blasted from her radio, but she didn't seem to notice.

"Forget the hospital," Murphy said. "I've plenty of band-aids at home."

"Not this time, I'm afraid," Leah said. "We can transport, but you should know it won't get you in any faster, and you won't like the looks of the bill."

Her radio squawked again and she stepped aside to answer it, frowning when the white noise continued. Murphy resisted telling her it was no use. The cathedral's concrete walls were built long before people cared about things like two-way radio reception.

Connor squeezed past her to take a look at Murphy's head. "Ladies, not that your concern isn't appreciated," he said, "but I think we've taken enough of your time. Surely there are more dire emergencies out there than my eejit brother."

Leah barely spared him a glance. "I'm sorry, I didn't get your name, Doctor…?"

"Connor," Annie told her. "They're _twins_," she added, as if the fact only made them more irritating.

"Well, gentlemen, Annie here can clean and dress the wound, but it's my opinion that you'll need further medical care. Eventually the bleeding will stop, but without stitches-" Her radio squawked again and she pressed a button to silence it. "Without stitches a scalp wound of this size and location will be prone to re-opening, as well as infection, not to mention a scar that may create a noticeable bald spot."

Murphy frowned. He hadn't thought of that.

Leah's mouth quirked and she continued, "But the choice is up to you." She brushed past Connor and crouched next to Annie at the medical bag. "If you're refusing care, I'll need you to sign…Annie, where's your clipboard?"

Annie cringed. "In the ambulance. Sorry, I'll go get it."

Leah took a long moment to replace her radio on her hip. "I'll get it. You stay and clean up your friend. I need to get outside where there's better reception anyway. This might be important."

"Your partner seems like a real pro," Connor said as soon as she was gone. "You been working together long?"

"Forget about it, Connor. She's not your type."

"Blonde?"

"Smart. Murphy, where are you going?"

"Nothing personal, Picasso, but I think I'll take my chances. Thanks anyway."

"Oh, for God's sake, just let me wash it out. It'll take three minutes, you can sign the form, and then you can go home and bleed to your heart's content."

The bathroom door opened again and Father Timothy peeked inside. His mouth dropped open when he saw Murphy, but to his credit, the priest took in the whole scene rather calmly. Being held at gunpoint in his own confessional last year had apparently raised his threshold for shock.

"I don't mean to interrupt," he said, "but when you gentlemen are finished, there's an officer outside who'd like to speak with you." He hesitated, then added, "I told him it might be a while, but he insisted on waiting."

For a moment, no one moved. Of course the cops would check the church. It was stupid to come here, to seek sanctuary in a _sanctuary._ The head wound would be the first thing they'd look for, the most solid part of whatever description Frankie had given them. It was so obvious, and yet here he stood, spewing blood and letting nuns call 9-1-1. He looked to Connor but his brother's head was bowed, his eyes closed.

"Thanks," Annie told the priest finally. "This won't take too long."

"Is that – Annie Lucas, is that you?" Father Timothy burst into a smile, stepping into the bathroom. "You look wonderful – my goodness, in that uniform- I wouldn't have recognized you if you weren't here with Murphy…I mean-not _with_ him, of course. Just here in this room…with him. "

Murphy's neck got hot.

Annie's smile was pained. "Thanks, Father. You're very kind."

Connor cleared his throat. "Father, did you get the officer's name?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't. But from the looks of his suit, he's had a long day."

Murphy caught the glint in Connor's eyes. Suit meant detective, but there was still a chance – a very good chance – that he wasn't one of their 'team.' The sight of Murphy's bloody head could easily be enough to get them hauled down to the station. Better for Connor to spin the story alone, with Father Timothy there to vouch for their unusual worship habits if necessary.

"Con, why don't you and Father Tim go see what the copper wants? I'm gonna take the doc's advice and let Annie practice her new skills."

Rolling her eyes, Annie pulled a bottle of water and gauze from the med bag.

"You sure that's a good idea?" Connor asked.

"I'm not going to kill him now, Connor. I've got no alibi."

Connor rubbed his chin. "She's clever, Murph. I see why you didn't want to let her go."

"Police don't like to wait, Con."

As soon as they left, Murphy positioned himself over the sink before he had to see the expression on Annie's face. "Anytime you're ready," he said.

Staring down the drain, he could see the lines of Annie's uniform from the corner of his eye. Crisp and blue, it was a very different look from the slouchy jeans, flip flops, and belly-baring t-shirt he had known.

"What's with the outfit?" she asked, tilting his head. "You look like you just robbed a bank."

"And you look like the rent-a-cop that's not going to catch me. Didn't you swear you'd never own an iron?"

Annie smoothed her navy blue BEMS shirt, which looked at least a size too big. "Turns out the starving artist uniform doesn't come with a paycheck. And if you must know, I don't have to iron it if I take it out before the dryer stops." She poured water over him, making pale red swirls in the already bloodied sink. "You didn't answer my question."

"You heard Connor," he said carefully.

"Yes, and I can't say that was his best work," she said, scrubbing the caked blood out of his hair with the delicacy of steel wool on a sunburn. "I know it's been a while, but I remember Connor being much smoother with the bullshit."

You have no idea, Murphy thought with a grimace. Murphy had never even suspected the truth his brother had smoothed over so thoroughly: Annie had called after she'd left.

And she was still talking, her fingers working against his scalp. "Though it was certainly better than that second cousin nonsense you tried to feed me this morning."

He couldn't agree more, but there was no changing it now. This was going to get a lot worse before it got better. "Patrick O'Malley was very dear to Connor and me," he said with as much indignation as he dared. "You have a problem with remembering family?"

Her fingers stopped scrubbing for a moment. "Apparently _you_ do. This morning he was Patrick O'Reilly."

Fuck. "That's what I meant." He watched the blood dribble off his hair, wondering how much he'd lose before she was through with him.

"Fine. Whatever. Speaking of this morning…" She trailed off as she blotted the wound dry. "You left in kind of a hurry. With my pictures."

"Yeah. Sorry about that."

"Jake was bummed he didn't get to talk to you about _Patrick's_ tattoo. And not that I care, but he hopes everything's okay."

She pulled his head closer, apparently concentrating so hard on the wound that she didn't notice his cheek was almost touching her chest. She was holding her breath.

"Everything's peachy," he said. "Aside from the head."

"Ugh. And the smell – I think I know that smell."

Murphy didn't doubt it. She'd had some pretty interesting roommates in college. He tensed as he felt her breath on his ear.

"Oh, yes," she said. "That's the stink of bad karma."

"Jesus, I was going to bring the pictures back to you! And there's no such thing as karma."

"You don't ever get the feeling God's punishing you?"

Murphy squirmed. "_Ouch._ At this very moment, in fact. What are you doing up there?"

"Trying to see why your cut won't close." She took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. "And why it's still bleeding so much. Hold still."

Suddenly she let go of him. She wet a paper towel under the faucet, her hands shaking ever so slightly.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

"Don't move. You're dripping."

"So get to work, doc. Before your boss comes back and wonders what we've been doing in here."

He thought he saw her lips twitch before she took hold of his head again. More blood and water washed into the sink.

"Oh, boy," she breathed, letting go of him again. "I can see it now. There's some foreign matter in there that's not washing away. Before I dress the wound I'm going to have to…get it out." She leaned on the sink with both hands, head down.

"Are you all right?"

"Peachy."

A dark lock of hair was curved over her cheek, but beneath it she was pale as the porcelain. A chuckle escaped before he could stop it. "Still getting pukey at the sight of blood. Isn't that a bit of a problem in your new line of work?"

"I do _not_ get sick. You should have seen me at this car accident last week, and there were some pretty gnarly injuries." Aha. Connor was right.

Murphy would be sure _not_ to tell him.

She got into position for a third time, still breathing deeply. "I am definitely not getting sick over a tiny little bonk from a fire hydrant."

"Definitely not." Had she decided to believe the story? Maybe this wouldn't be as bad as he'd thought.

"Just shut up and hold still." She'd barely picked up the pair of tweezers before letting go of him again with a groan. "I can't believe this is happening. I swear to God, Murphy, if you tell anyone…"

"Relax, Ann. Just put your head between my knees."

"We are in a church, you know."

"Interesting that that's your only objection."

She rolled her eyes, but the blush that crept into her cheeks seemed to help restore her balance. She took another deep breath and clutched the tweezers…

"Ow, _Jesus_!"

"Got it." Grinning victoriously, she held the tweezers under the faucet, rinsing the blood off of the small, pointy object.

It was a shard of glass, bright blue. Slowly, her smile faded.

* * *

Father Timothy stopped halfway through the lobby and gestured to the double front doors.

"The detective's right outside," he said to Connor. "I've got a penitent waiting, but I can come with you if you'd like."

"I won't keep you from your duties, Father. I'll be all right."

He pushed the heavy door open an inch. Bitter wind sliced through the opening and up his sleeve. It felt good, since he'd already begun to sweat. Although he happened to know a good majority of the South Boston precinct were secretly sympathetic to the Saints' cause- he was playing Connor McManus tonight.

_Please, Lord, just give me a familiar face._

The wind gusted, catching the door and throwing it open. Down on the sidewalk, hunched over his cell phone, was the answer to his prayer. Under the streetlamp Detective Tom Duffy's pea-green tie sagged, half-loosened. He saw Connor and held up one finger.

Brilliant. Even better than he'd hoped for. Now, if only his brother could prove as lucky with Annie, they'd be back in business in no time. He lit a cigarette and watched Leah pace on the steps beside him.

"Unit Five-Six to Med-Com, please repeat your traffic."

The radio crackled, and a no-nonsense female voice blared. "Five-Six, Downtown is requesting back-up coverage. What is your status?"

"Currently on-scene, but wrapping up. Estimated time to clear – five minutes." Leah pursed her lips, then added, "Is Downtown out of service?" She let off the transmission and said to Connor, "If those bums drove to North End for Frangioli's I'm going to kick someone's ass."

There was a short pause, then the voice, somewhat terse, "Five-Six, advise when clear. Back-up request is urgent and on-going. There's been an incident…please stand by."

Connor found himself staring expectantly at the radio with her, but the voice did not continue. She clipped the radio to her belt and glanced at him.

"You want an ice pack for that eye?"

"I'll be all right," he said, wishing the overhead light wasn't quite so bright.

The wind picked up, blowing wisps of blonde around Leah's face. She tucked them behind her ears and leaned against the railing.

"It's Connor, right?"

He nodded.

"How do you know my partner?"

He sucked the last of his smoke then ground it out, considering how to answer. The goal was to get on Annie's good side. Clearly that would mean keeping things positive in front of her boss. "We had a mutual friend. Met when she was out here at BU."

"Oh, really," Leah said, crossing her arms. "I assumed she was new to Boston. It's nice to know I've just wasted the last sixteen hours playing tour guide. Why didn't she tell me?"

Damn, how many ways could the truth possibly got him in trouble tonight? "Sorry. Her inner workings have always been a mystery to me."

"What'd she major in?"

"You know, you ought to ask Annie herself about this." Fine Arts was probably not the most impressive training for the medical profession.

"Oh, believe me, I will. I guess you probably won't tell me what's up with her and your brother, either." She flashed him a white smile that was almost too much for his one good eye.

"Not a chance," he said, trying not to notice the tiny dimple in her left cheek. He shook out another cigarette, wishing Duffy would get off the damn phone already. He could feel her studying him again, and to be absolutely truthful, he felt much more comfortable when she had her hands tied and he was behind a mask.

"I'm sorry, Connor, I gotta ask-have we met before? I could swear I know you from somewhere."

His lighter slipped from between his fingers and clattered across the steps.

"No, I don't think so."

Leah was closer and she picked it up for him, turning it over in her hand.

"Are you sure?" she asked. "I'm not usually wrong about these things." She handed the lighter back and he tucked it his pocket. Then he remembered he hadn't yet lit his cigarette and fished it back out.

"Sorry. I'm quite sure I'd remember if we had."

There was the dimple again. "God, it's really going to bug me now. Something about you is so _familiar_ – you know, maybe it's your voice."

Shit. That's exactly what it was. _Idiot._

Thankfully, Duffy took that moment to trudge up the steps.

"Mr. McManus, I thought that was you."

"Detective Duffy," Connor said, taking care to very subtly let the Irish drop out of his voice and the Boston English creep in. "What brings you out here on such a lovely night?"

Leah was no longer smiling. Was the accent change too obvious? She met his eyes, her brows drawn together, then looked quickly away.

"I was going to ask you the same thing," Duffy said, "and maybe you as well, Miss Solomon. Aren't you supposed to be taking a couple days off?"

"Administrative leave only makes the department feel better, detective." Her tone made it clear the subject was not open for discussion. She started down the steps. "Connor, I'll just get that form for your brother to sign."

When she'd reached the ambulance at the curb, Duffy spoke quietly. "When I heard the call go out for the man-hunt, I volunteered to sweep this block. Let me know if any of this sounds familiar – two men, black pants and sweatshirts, wearing ski masks and gloves. Irish accents. Armed and dangerous." He glanced at the ambulance. "One with a possible head injury."

"Duffy, I can explain-"

"Suspected of breaking and entering at…" Duffy pulled a folded print-out from his jacket.

"I know, I know," Connor said, reaching for it.

Duffy pulled it back an inch. "You know, I'm not used to playing delivery boy for Greenly."

"I'd like to think of you as a divine messenger."

"If that makes Greenly God, forget about it."

Connor snatched the paper and unfolded it. There was no question the man in the ID picture was Frankie. He resisted the urge to crumple it into a tiny ball and instead slipped it into his sweatshirt pocket.

"Things didn't go exactly as planned."

"So that's not the guy we're looking for?"

"We're going to find him. We know exactly where the picture is, and we'll have it first thing tomorrow."

"The picture – Connor, we don't need this guy's picture. We need him in custody."

The muscles in the back of Connor's neck tightened. "As we are all more than acutely aware, Tom. I think you're forgetting that the only reason you've a lead on this asshole in the first place is because a wee little Murphy bird gave it to you."

Leah climbed out of the ambulance, clipboard in hand.

Duffy ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry Connor. I know you want him as much as we do. But man, Smecker is not going to want to hear this from me." He sighed as Leah started their way. "Damn gratitude complex. It blows my mind how perfectly she edited you guys out of her statement. Dolly and I believed her, did you know that? Greenly, well, he doesn't trust anyone, and Smecker kept his thoughts to himself until he was sure. Only Beckman wanted to call her back in to poke holes in her story. Any more shit hits the fan, we're not going to be able to stop him."

* * *

Murphy stared at the shard of glass, cursing Connor, Frankie, and the entire world-wide population of pot smokers.

"Not like any fire hydrant I've seen," Annie said, turning it over. "Not a beer or a wine bottle. Too thin to be any kind of liquor bottle. "

With the smallest movement Murphy bumped her wrist, dislodging the glass from the tweezers. Down the drain it went, followed by fresh blood dribbling off his hair and down his forehead now that Annie had popped the cork. She reached shakily for the gauze, and knocked it onto the floor.

As she moved to pick it up, her knees buckled.

Murphy caught her around the waist. "Take it easy, darlin'."

"Don't," she warned. She tried to jerk out of his hold and her elbow knocked hard against the gun in his shoulder holster.

They both froze.

"What was that?"

He let go of her and she caught herself on the wall.

"Nothing."

Her eyes were wide, her face paler than ever. "Why are you wearing a…was that a _gun_?"

He picked up the gauze, forcing a laugh. "You think I would bring a gun to church?"

"If you did, I think you'd lie about it," she said, sliding down the wall. "Just like you're lying about the fire hydrant. Just like you're lying about Patrick O'Whatever." She leaned her head forward between her knees and spoke to the floor. "For God's sake, do you honestly think I don't know Rocco's dead?"

For a moment, it was as if someone had turned down the volume dial in his ears. Then the sound returned and built to a roar, a freight train bearing down on him. And he was there again in the basement, hands bound, tasting the blood.

* * *

Leah climbed the steps, the clipboard in one hand and a small white tube in the other.

"How's your brother feel about superglue?"

"On his head? I think he'd prefer it over his usual treatment."

"His usual? I take it this isn't the first time-" Leah's radio buzzed and she answered it quickly, but after several seconds, the monotone voice on the other end once again told her to stand by.

"I'm sure they're just busy," she explained, though no one had asked. "My idle curiosity is hardly top priority to Med-Com."

Connor took the clipboard from her. "Duffy – I mean, detective, have you heard anything about an incident downtown?"

"Not yet, but I can make a call." He gave Connor a long look, and it occurred to him that Leah might have good reason to be curious.

"Oh, you don't have to do that," she said when Duffy began to dial. "I'm just being nosy, you don't need to call anyone."

Duffy held up a finger and walked a few steps away.

"Look," Leah said to Connor, squeezing her temples. "I'm sure you mean well, but I don't need any more connection with trouble downtown."

"Hey, relax. Tom can be discreet. You're in good hands here."

"What, are you on the same softball team? You have no idea what kind of hands I'm in."

Her last words snapped with a heat that took him by surprise. She paced on the edge of the darkness, expression unreadable, and it struck him suddenly that this was how she'd looked the last time he'd seen her, standing over Scuderi's body, watching him escape. He hadn't known what to say then, either.

Abruptly, she yanked open the church door, casting a glance at Duffy still on the phone. "Bring me that form when you're done."

* * *

"We do have CNN on the west coast," Annie said quietly. "Telephones, too."

Their eyes locked in the mirror, and both waiting for an apology that refused to form. Oh, he had plenty of apologies for her. Just not one for neglecting to reach her at a number she never bothered to give him.

Oh, wait. Except that she did. Fucking Connor.

What would she say now if he told her? And how much to tell? Even if she knew everything, could see the whole picture-the damage was done. The loss was real. No amount of confession was going to change that now.

She turned her face toward the corner and a weight crushed his chest.

Christ, he was a prick. No one deserved to hear of a friend's murder on CNN. "Annie, I-"

The door opened. Leah strode in, followed by Connor and a tired looking Detective Duffy.

Annie scrambled to stand, slipping in a puddle of pinkish water.

"Good, you're still alive," Connor said to him. "Murph, you remember Detective Duffy?"

"Of course," Murphy said. "How're you doing, man?"

Duffy gave him a sympathetic wince. "Better than you, from the looks of it." He turned to Annie. "Tom Duffy," he said, extending his hand to help her up. "Are you all right?"

"Why is he still bleeding?" Leah asked. "And why are you on the floor? Good God, did you _faint_?"

"No! Of course not. I was…I was just…"

"Cleaning up my mess," Murphy said quickly. "Trying to, anyway."

All eyes fell on Annie. She plucked a towel and made a cursory swipe of the blood-spattered counter.

"Okay…" Leah said, "Well, in the future, let's try to take care of the blood loss before the scrub down, all right?"

"Of course," Annie said, eyes fixed stonily on Murphy. "Rookie mistake."

Connor cleared his throat. "So, it's your lucky day, Murph. The doc says we can fix your cracked melon with superglue."

Leah moved Murphy's hand to examine the wound again. "It's called Surgi-seal," she said, handing a small white tube to Annie. "They need us downtown, so we're a little short on time. If you don't think you can stay vertical I'll do it myself."

Her face flaming, Annie squared her shoulders. "I can handle it. What's going on downtown?"

"Something big if they need us to back-fill. And don't worry, you can drive. I hear BU students know all the best short-cuts."

Annie's face couldn't get any redder, but her lip curled back and her eyes narrowed at Connor, who shuffled a step closer to Murphy.

"Duffy's asking around," Connor told him, as if that explained anything.

Duffy's phone rang and whole room fell silent.

"Talk to me," Duffy said, and his forehead creased into a frown. He glanced at Leah. "What's the damage?...well find out, damn it! It makes a difference, don't you think?...Don't let them start without me, I'm on my way now." He snapped the phone shut and squeezed his temples.

"Got the word on Downtown," he said to Leah, with only the very briefest glance in Connor and Murphy's direction.

She bit her lip, but said nothing.

"There's been an incident near the courthouse. Someone set Eugene Scuderi's office on fire."

"Scuderi," Annie said. "Isn't that the guy who got-"

"Yes," Leah snapped. "It's the guy who got murdered. Pack up, we gotta go."

"But what about Murphy's-"

"Oh, for crying out loud," Leah said, snatching the Surgi-seal from her hand. In one fluid movement she had Murphy's head anchored under one arm and his wound blotted clean. By the time he felt the burn of the glue she'd already released him.

"Damn," Connor said. "I've got to get me some of that."

Murphy gingerly touched his head.

"Duty calls," Leah said. "Good luck, gentlemen."

"Wait," Connor said, catching her at the door. "Your clipboard. Sorry, I never did find a pen."

Duffy produced one, but Leah backed out the door with the papers. "Don't worry about it. Annie, you coming?"

Annie hefted the med bag onto her small shoulder. "Nice to see you, Father, Detective," she said, brushing past Connor without a word.

Murphy was standing in her path and made it a point not to move. "Thanks," he said when she had to look up.

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Try not to pick at the scab. And for God's sake, take a shower."

"Damn," Connor said when they were gone. "I leave you alone for five minutes-"

"Shut it."

"I've got to get down there," Duffy said. "before Beckman picks through the evidence, before the coroner seals up whatever he leaves behind."

"Coroner?"

Duffy sighed. "I didn't want to make it worse for Leah. You saw how she was, just hearing about the fire. It's bad enough they let her come back so soon, but now that it's clear- publicly – that Saturday wasn't an isolated incident, that this asshole's not going to stop until he gets what he wants-"

"Tom. What happened?"

Duffy rubbed both hands over his face. "Scuderi's office wasn't empty. Firefighters found a body, burned pretty badly, but not so badly they couldn't see the bullet holes in his chest. From the van parked out front, they're pretty sure it's the janitor."

...

* * *

A/N: Don't be shy! Punch that little review button and make my day!


	10. Ruthless

**[Chapter 10: Ruthless]**

Duffy dropped them at their car with a promise that someone would touch base in the morning. Once home, Murphy went straight for the shower and found that Leah's superglue treatment had held surprisingly well. The two-inch bruise that surrounded it in the morning was mostly concealed under his dark hair, unlike Connor's gloriously obvious shiner.

The black eye turned more than a few heads at Dunkie's, where they stopped to pick up a peace offering. Normally, Murphy would have milked Connor's predicament for all it was worth, but thoughts of what he was going to say when he handed over Annie's album plagued him all the way through his maple bar. At five-to-nine, they were outside One-Eye'd Jake's, and Murphy still had no idea what to tell her.

Connor shaded his eyes against the glass. "No sign of the man. On the plus side, no sign of the little woman either." He scanned the cars parked along the street. "What's Annie driving these days?"

"Hell if I know, Con. We weren't chatting autos."

"Well, what were you chatting, then? You crashed out still wearing your wet towel last night, never told me the tale."

"There's nothing to tell. It was fine."

"Fine," Connor echoed, raising an eyebrow. "Annie was on the floor when I came back."

"Yeah, well. I have that effect."

"_Bong water_ has that effect. We're mighty lucky they didn't send the K-9 units."

"We're lucky they didn't send anyone but Duffy," Murphy said seriously. "Leah didn't seem like she suspected anything, did she?"

Connor gave an uneasy shrug. "It was a bit odd—she was all right with me, but with Tom…I don't know. She doesn't like him."

"Well, she did lie to him, Con. With good intentions, but still—he probably makes her nervous as hell." _Strange how lying does that to some people._

Connor turned from scanning the street to catch Murphy's eye, then look quickly away. "Come on," he said. "Let's check the back."

"Did you see the scabs on her wrists?" Connor asked as if needing to fill the sudden silence of the alley.

"Aye," Murphy said, allowing his brother to redirect the conversation from the lie—the _betrayal_—that was too sharp a sting to revisit so soon. He pushed it back, away, concentrating on balancing Jake's coffee on the donut box.

Connor walked ahead of him, a few steps more than necessary. "Leah's lucky they used cable ties on her, and not cuffs." He tried the back door with no luck. "Damn. Jake really ought to beef up his security," he said, rattling the loose doorknob. His eyes narrowed appraisingly and he ran his fingers along the doorjamb. "This lock is a joke."

"Don't even think about it."

Connor turned, hearing a challenge Murphy hadn't intended to voice. "No more calling the shots, remember? You're on the bench today." He took hold of the door knob again, but then, as if willed by a benevolent God, the door swung open and knocked Connor flat on his ass.

Jake's beefy frame filled the doorway, a steel baseball bat in one hand and a trash bag in the other.

Murphy swallowed a laugh. "'Mornin', Jake."

"Jesus Christ Almighty. I knew it couldn't be my worthless employees coming to work on time-I thought you were a couple of punks after my cash drawer." He tapped the bat against his thigh. "Just what _are_ you couple of punks after?"

"We wanted to apologize for running off yesterday," Murphy said. "Thought we'd try to catch you early."

Connor struggled to his feet, glaring at Murphy. "Aye, we know you park the bike back here sometimes…"

"Not on trash day," Jake grunted, heaving the bag into the nearby dumpster. He glanced at the pink and orange box Murphy held. "Your halo's looking shiny this morning." He watched Connor dust himself off and then chuckled when he saw the eye. "Yours not so much, boy. Woman troubles?"

"Not mine," Connor said, with a pointed look at Murphy.

"Oh, Connor doesn't need a woman to find trouble." Murphy grinned. "He's self-sufficient that way."

"Speaking of troublesome women…" Connor began.

Jake laid the bat across Connor's chest. "Watch it, choirboy."

Connor offered him a cup of coffee and a winning smile. "What I meant to say was, will we also have the pleasure of your beautiful niece's charming company?"

Jake snorted. "She got called back for an overtime shift. Girl's going to kill herself working the way she does—there _and_ here. She was ruthless with those photos albums this morning. Kept swearing under her breath about missing pictures."

Connor reached for a donut hole, smirking. Murphy closed the box on his hand.

"But, thanks to the ruthlessness," Jake went on, "my whole library's back in working order, so I'm thinking…" he smiled, opening the door. "It's about time we started on those sleeves."

"Sleeves, aye. Or…maybe something a bit simpler for now," Connor said, throwing Murphy a look as he followed Jake inside. "You know how my brother is when comes to picking designs."

"Only 'cause it's forever," Murphy said, taking a peek at the office as he passed. It was spotless. Annie must have moved the albums back up front after she finished.

In the lobby, Jake hooked his thumbs in his pockets, eyeing Murphy expectantly. "I know that look, boy. You have something in mind. Sketched it up yet?" He popped a donut hole in his mouth, sobering when Murphy didn't answer right away.

Jake swallowed, the sound of it audible in the silence.

"You hear about Rocco?" Murphy asked quietly.

Jake bowed his head, nodding slowly. "I'm sorry," he said, looking up after a moment. "He was a crazy son of a bitch, but—it was a damn shame what happened to him."

Murphy nodded. Connor was nodding too, the three of them bobbing like mute buoys until Jake plucked the nearest album from the neat line-up on the coffee table and checked its brief hand-written table of contents. He checked two more, then traded Murphy the album of religious designs for the box of donuts.

"Save us all some time and start with this one."

"Thanks, Jake. You're the best."

"Or else you wouldn't be here, right?"

"Damn straight," Connor said. "It's completely irrelevant that you refuse to take our money."

"That was years ago, MacManus. Times are hard, and you're not so young and pretty as you used to be."

"Sure, kick me when I'm down."

"Looks like someone else took care of that for me already."

Connor's eyes narrowed at Murphy. "Sucker punch. Came out of nowhere."

Jake laughed. "Shiner like that, and you never saw it coming? I'd get your eyes checked if I were you, boy."

"Once the swelling goes down," Murphy added.

"Fuck you both."

Murphy scratched an eyebrow. "Seriously, Jake. We can pay double, whatever you need."

"Oh, keep your damn cash. I'm not taking your rent money. I'd have to let you worthless bums sleep here." He tossed a book to Connor. "Categories are listed in the front. Give me a shout when you're ready to draw something up. I've got to make some phone calls."

"I've got Devils and Demons," Connor said, reading the spine. "Dear God, let this be it."

They went to work on the books, silent in their concentration, which made it impossible not to eavesdrop on Jake's calls. Apparently, their dear friend Franklin Hayes had yet to show up for work. Connor exchanged a glance with Murphy after Jake's third call.

As Jake dialed the fourth Zeke strolled in, cradling a black travel mug, looking hung-over but not terribly unhappy about it.

"Mornin', Z-man," Jake said. "Hey, you heard from Frankie lately?"

Zeke raised an eyebrow. "I hate to tell you this, man. Frankie hit the shit pretty hard last night. You can bet he'll be sleeping it off 'til at least noon."

"The hell he will," Jake muttered, hanging up and re-dialing. He wore a small smile when the other end picked up. "Hey there, Annie. I need you to do me a favor."

Murphy tried to return to his search, but it was clear that the twisting devil's tail would not be found amongst the crucifixes and crosses, most of which he'd seen the day before. Towards the back of the book he came across the photo of his own tattoo, the custom-designed Celtic cross that had pointed them to Jake's shop in the first place.

Murphy slipped the photo out of its sleeve.

"Please tell me you found it," Connor said, "'cause I've been back and forth through this thing twice already."

Murphy handed over the photo. "Not yet, but check this out. It's hardly even faded. Jake always said I had great skin."

"Too bad this isn't your skin. This is mine."

"What? How can you tell?"

"Well, for one thing, it's my _left_ arm. Look at the wrist."

"Boney. Like a woman's. You're right, it's yours." Murphy flipped to the next page, but there was no matching photo. He tried the next, then went back through the entire section.

"Mine's not here."

"Maybe it's in the book you stole."

Murphy glanced at Jake, still on the phone at the counter. Had Annie mentioned the missing book to Jake? It might be less of a hassle to return it to Jake now, while she was out.

"No, and he's not answering Zeke's calls either," Jake was saying. "We've both got ten o'clocks or else I'd send Zeke out after the little kleptomaniac. Can you swing by and bang on his front door? Let me give you the address…"

Then again, there was no harm in the book mysteriously reappearing on its own.

"I would've seen it," Murphy told Connor quietly. "Besides, it was chronological, remember? If she had one, she'd have the other."

He flipped forward past the crosses, then slower through images of Jesus and the saints. The simple black and white icon of Mary sat alone on her page. As before, though two tattoos had been inked, only one photo remained in the collection.

He took it out and studied it closely for the small white scar that would only appear on his own neck, thanks to a run-in with a barbed wire fence when he was ten. There was no scar. It was Connor again.

"Damn, Murph, this is starting to look personal. What exactly did you say to her last night?"

Behind the counter, Zeke smirked.

Jake crossed the room and flipped the OPEN sign, looking up at the roman-numeral clock with a sigh. "Come on, kid," he mumbled to himself. "Can't you drag your lazy ass in on time, for once in your life?"

On a whim, Murphy picked up the book with font samples. Halfway through the Latin lettering he found both the _Veritas_ and the _Aequitas_ snapshots.

"See, there I am," he told Connor. "It's not personal."

"What's not personal?" Jake wanted to know.

Zeke chimed in, "Murphy here wants to know why he's been dropped from the hall of fame."

Connor pointed out where the missing photos should have been and the laugh lines deepened in Jake's face.

"I told you she was ruthless this morning," Jake said. "Condense and simplify, that's what she said when she filled the trash can with duplicates. If you drew the short straw—well, I suppose it could be just a coincidence."

Zeke bit his studded lip. Jake and Connor grinned openly at that particular likelihood.

"Duplicates," Murphy repeated, ignoring them.

"Well, sure. How many pictures of skulls and crossbones do I need? Or four-leaf clovers? Or tramp-stamp butterflies? Do you know I had twenty-seven identical Red Sox logos? Once she laid it all out for me, I tell you it was almost embarrassing."

"So both our hand tats are here because they're not the same," Connor said, his smile beginning to fade.

"But if a design was identical," Murphy continued, heart sinking, "if it was inked more than once, she ditched all the copies." And since she knew which book Murphy had taken, she'd know which ones to keep. And which to throw away.

The squeal and rumble of the garbage truck carried up the hallway, and Murphy met Connor's eyes.

Springing up, they sprinted down the hall and crashed into the alley together, only to rear backwards when the truck's mechanical arm dropped the empty dumpster inches from the door.

"Shit!"

The truck barreled on and Connor raced after it. "Hold on, wait up!" he shouted, but the driver paused only long enough at the corner to give Connor the finger.

Jake and Zeke came down the hall behind them. "What, in the name of all that's fucking holy, is going on?" Jake asked.

Connor shuffled back up the alley. "Fuck," Murphy could hear him mutter. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Murphy groaned. If he'd kept his shit together yesterday, he might have found the right photo before she threw it away. Now they had nothing.

Jake stepped out beside him. "I want to know what the hell is going on," he said quietly. "And don't try to tell me it's about your ego because I damn well know you better than that. You're after something. If it's Annie-you can forget about it. If it's something else, then I suggest you start talking, cause I ain't got a lot of patience for bullshit."

Murphy took a breath, wishing that for once he anything _but_ bullshit to offer. "It's true we're looking for a design," he said. "One of yours. Something I've seen before."

Just then the front door bell jingled and a black-haired girl strutted in, sunlight bouncing off an earful of silver hoops, presumably Zeke's ten o'clock. With a smile on his studded lips, he sauntered off to greet her.

Jake waited. Connor, whose jaw was tightly clenched, gave Murphy an infinitesimal head shake.

The door jingled again and two guys in UMass sweatshirts stepped inside. "Damn," Jake muttered. A moment later the phone rang.

"Jake?" Zeke called.

Jake let out a low growl. "I swear to God, if I wasn't desperate for business…If I turn my back are you going to run out on me again?"

Connor looked doubtful but Murphy made the promise for them both, "We'll wait."

"Good. Then do me a favor and make yourselves useful. Apparently I'm going to be shorthanded today."

Murphy prodded Connor to follow him back to the lobby.

"You want to _ask_ him?" Connor hissed while Jake took the college boys aside to his workroom. "He's done hundreds, maybe even thousands of tats since the one we're looking for. What are the chances he remembers this one?"

"But there _is_ a chance – if he even recalls the slightest detail about the guy he gave it to-"

"No, Murph." Connor switched on the radio, letting CCR blast for a few pointed moments before lowering the volume. "We already talked about this."

"Do you see another option?" The phone was still ringing. Connor was closer, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Getting another friend involved is not an option."

"He won't be _involved_-"

"MacManus!" Jake thundered from behind the black curtain.

Connor snatched the receiver, "One-Eyed Jake's….Well, g'mornin' Annie, what's the…whoa, slow down…Can he call you back? He's…all right, okay, jeez. I'll get him."

"What is it?" Murphy asked.

Connor pulled Jake's curtain aside. "Something's up, and it's nothing good."

Jake already had on latex gloves and he pulled one off to pick up the phone. "Annie, hon, I'm right in the middle of…what? Jesus Christ-are you sure?" He winced and held the phone an inch further from his ear. "Sorry, I just can't believe..."

He took off his glasses and ran a hand over his face, then realized the glove was still on his hand and ripped it off.

Murphy leaned in, trying futilely to make out what Annie was saying.

"Was he alone?" Jake asked. "You want me to come down? Are the cops there yet?"

Murphy froze. Connor looked at him.

"All right, babe, all right. No, I'm fine. I'll be here. You tell them I'll be here and you just do what you got to do…I'm sorry, hon."

In slow motion, he hung up the receiver. "Holy fucking shit." He looked at Connor and Murphy, then across the room to where Zeke and the girl were watching them. At the look on Jake's face, Zeke excused himself and strode over to lean on the counter opposite Murphy.

"What is it?"

"You're going to want to sit down, kid." There was only one stool at the counter, which Jake already occupied, but nobody bothered to point this out.

Zeke crossed his ink-covered arms and waited, his pierced brows knitted together.

"You know I asked Annie to swing by Frankie's place," Jake began. "Guess she about beat down the door knocking, but he never did answer, so she tried the knob and it wasn't locked…" He took a breath, then the words spilled out hard and fast. "He was in his bedroom, on the floor—he'd been shot. He's dead."

.

.


	11. Homicide

**[Chapter 11: Homicide]**

.

Murphy's heart skipped, and then began to pound. In an instant, the entire fiasco from the night before flashed before his eyes, from slugging Connor, to realizing he had the wrong man, to getting smashed with the bong to fleeing the police. Icy nausea spread through him as one terrible thought cemented in the chaos:

There was no way this was a coincidence.

For a good ten seconds, no one spoke. Then Zeke's posture seemed to deflate. "I should've known something bad was going to happen. I told him to wait and talk to the cops. I told him, but he just wanted to get on and get fucked up and forget about the whole thing."

"What whole thing?" Jake asked.

"Frankie got jumped last night. Two guys in masks attacked him, right there in his own damn living room."

"You were with him?" Jake asked.

Zeke shook his head, his skin ashen. "We don't usually hang out, but you know my car's been in the shop and I needed a ride to this party. Frankie was just stopping in to get some, ah, refreshments. I was waiting in the car, but these cops were getting ticked 'cause the car was double parked, so I went to get him. I must have walked in at just the right time-or the wrong time I guess, 'cause the shit went down real fast after that."

"Did you get a look at them?" Connor asked.

"Fuck, man, not much. Soon as they saw me they took off out the back."

"Did Frankie know who they were?" Jake asked.

"He wouldn't say anything. Not to me or the cops."

"He didn't say what they were after?" Murphy asked, not quite hiding his surprise.

"He said he didn't know," Zeke said, his voice rising. "We went to the party and I hardly saw him the rest of the night." He crossed his wiry arms and began to rock slightly on his feet.

"All right, Z, relax," Jake said, seeming to suddenly remember they weren't alone. The piercing girl was pretending to study the artwork on the walls while the college boys hovered at the edge of Jake's curtain, looking more uncomfortable by the second. "Excuse me a minute, I'm going to go run off the last of the paying customers."

"Zeke," Murphy said, "Can you think of anyone else who might have been out to get him? There is a chance it wasn't the same people."

"Are you kidding me? Some North End tool's got a gun to his head, I'm going to go ahead and guess that's the guy that killed him."

Murphy fingered the rosary beneath his shirt. The cold that had settled in chest made his own voice sound hollow. "What makes you say he was North End?"

Zeke gave a one-shoulder shrug, and then the door chime rang and all conversation stopped. What looked like a linebacker in a medic's uniform held the door open for an exhausted-looking Annie.

She trudged in, wearing the same oversized blue shirt and possibly the same uniform pants from the day before. From the rough attempt to pull back her hair, he guessed she hadn't gotten a chance to shower. Jake crushed her into a hug. Over his shoulder, her eyes fell on Murphy. Her eyelids lowered warily.

When Jake finally released her, she smoothed her shirt and gestured to the linebacker.

"Jake, this is my partner of the day, Felix Ortega. Ortie, this is my uncle Jake. He's…he was Frankie's boss. Over there's Zeke, Connor and Murphy."

"I'm so sorry," Ortie said, letting Jake shake his hand heartily. "I wish we could have done something, but…"

Jake waved him off, as if they'd neglected to bring a six-pack to a party. "Come in, take a load off. I bet you could use some coffee. Let me put on a pot."

"We actually can't stay long," Annie said. "We're supposed to be back on the clock, but I wanted to see you first. The detectives will be here any minute, after they talk to Frankie's mom."

The knife twisted in Murphy's gut and suddenly echoes of Mama Del's graveside wailing bombarded him. He needed a cigarette, badly. And a drink.

"Fuck," Connor breathed.

"This is going to kill Regina," Jake said with a sigh. "I'm going to put on that pot."

He shuffled to the office, his whole body seeming to sag.

"He knows Frankie's mom from AA," Zeke explained quietly. "That's how Frankie ended up with the job here. And why he never got fired."

Ortie sank into one of the sofas while Annie made her way over.

"You all right?" she asked Zeke.

Zeke gave another one-shoulder shrug. "It's fucked up."

"It is. I'm sorry," Annie said. "I didn't know him that well but – I really am sorry."

"Can you tell me something?" Zeke asked. His voice was overly casual, and Murphy wished he could leave before his friend lost his delicate grasp of control. "Do you think it was quick?"

Annie took a breath. "I do." She watched Zeke closely, as if gauging whether or not to continue. "Where he was shot - he would have died instantly. From what I saw, I don't think there was a struggle. It was probably over before he even thought to fight back."

"Nah, he'd have fought back all right," Zeke muttered.

Annie looked puzzled.

"Zeke was with him last night," Murphy told her. "Apparently Frankie had some…unfriendly visitors."

"What?" Annie said, loud enough to catch Ortie's attention across the room. "Who were they? What did they look like?"

"Relax, Annie," Connor said. "He didn't get a good look."

Annie ignored him. "What did you see, Zeke?"

"I saw Frankie-boy go fuckin' reefer madness." His shoulders shook and he broke into a grin. "Took his precious Papa Smurf, smashed it right on that fucker's head. I tell you, you wouldn't think glass would shatter like that on a ski mask, but you should've seen - he fucking destroyed it. It was awesome."

"What's Papa Smurf?" Annie asked.

Zeke gave a furtive glance toward Ortie and lowered his voice. "You know, his bong. He called it Papa Smurf cause it was the daddy of all bongs. And it was blue."

Murphy dug for his cigarettes, sure Annie's eyes were fixed on him, but too paranoid to check. "I need a smoke. Con?"

On the edge of his vision, he saw Annie lean both elbows on the counter. "The cops are going to be here soon, Zeke – you make sure you tell them everything. _Everything_, all right?"

Zeke didn't answer. His head was bowed and he nodded slightly. Annie put a hand on his shoulder.

When he heard the first sniff, Murphy headed straight for the door, with Connor a step behind. "We'll be outside."

"Am I missing something?" Connor asked, slowing to light up as he made for the driver's side. "You run like that, someone's going to start chasing you."

The shop door jingled. "Murphy, wait," Annie called.

Connor frowned at him over the roof of the car.

"Shit," Murphy said. "_Elle a vu le verre_, Con. _Je pense qu'elle le sait_."

"_Verre_," Connor repeated, his eyes searching up and left.

_The glass, Connor! She saw the blue fucking glass! _Jesus, when had his brother's French gotten so bad?

He switched to Gaelic as Annie marched over to him. "_Gloine ghorm," _he said hurriedly._ "Sáite i mo cheann_."

The light bulb blinked on and Connor did some creative but utterly useless swearing.

"Exactly how long do you think you can hold out on me?" Annie demanded.

Murphy managed a smile. "Do you mean that rhetorically, or should I fetch my calendar?"

"I'm serious," she said. "Did you bring my pictures or not?"

"Your…pictures." It took a second to downshift. "You want them _now_?"

"Is that a problem?"

Murphy stared at her. "They're in the trunk."

With a silent _you're on your own_ look, Connor got in the car, popped the trunk and closed the door behind him. So much for back-up.

Murphy opened the trunk part-way, scanning the scattering of paper napkins and empty cigarette cartons. All he needed now was for Annie to spot a stray casing. He plucked the album from the far left corner and turned to find her wiping her eyes.

"Well, shit."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, sniffing. "I'm sorry, I don't even care about the pictures, I just couldn't stay in there with Zeke. I don't know what's wrong with me. I didn't even _like_ Frankie. He was always trying to see down my shirt and I know for a fact he was stealing the petty cash. At least Jake won't have to fire him now."

She glanced behind her through the window. Jake, Zeke and Ortie clustered loosely around the counter, but their concerned eyes focused on the window, missing nothing. "Damn it. Of course they're watching. Ortie's friends with Leah and, God, after last night all I need is her hearing about-" she broke off, swiping at fresh tears.

"It's all right, Ann," he said, offering her a mostly clean napkin. "Nobody's going to fault you. It's not an easy thing you've done." When she took it their fingers touched and she stepped back awkwardly. A foot between them and he was still three thousand miles away.

"It's not that," she said. "It's just that I keep thinking…I keep picturing…you know with the gunshots to the chest, point blank, right through the heart…" She gestured helplessly and her voice broke. "Just like Roc."

The sound pierced him. He saw his hand reach for her, felt her body, warm and fragile, shaking against his chest. God, what she must have been like when she first found out—his heart contracted at the thought and he forced it away, closing his eyes. He breathed in her scent of soap and sweat and peaches, trying to commit it to memory, sharply aware of the captive audience inside the shop.

He could feel each one of them as they stared: Jake's distrust and Zeke's despair and Ortie's curiosity. And then there was Connor. The raised trunk may have blocked the view, but the force of his brother's presence was the most palpable of all.

Murphy held her tightly, swallowing. _Do it_, he ordered himself. _Tell her now before you lose your chance._

When her breathing slowed, tentatively he let his cheek rest upon her hair. She didn't pull away. His words tumbled out, "I'm sorry I didn't call to tell you."

For one long moment, she didn't respond. A car drove slowly by behind him, catching Annie's attention when the engine cut a few parking spaces up. She gave a little shrug and the embrace shattered. Then she turned away and blew her nose.

"I wanted to," he went on, surprised at the sudden need for her to understand. "Things were just so fucked up at the time and I…." _forgot_, he tried to say, but the lie stuck in his throat.

She took another napkin. "Jake called me when the names were released," she said, her voice quickly regaining strength. "Told me about the blood bath. Mass execution of the ruling family, and Rocco right there with them." The new car's door slammed and Annie glanced up the sidewalk, shoving the balled-up napkin in her pocket. "At least he finally got what he wanted, right? One of the family."

The freight train began to build, and Murphy struggled to keep it at bay. "He was never one of them. Whatever you heard, Annie. He wasn't."

"Oh, come _on_, Murphy!" Her laugh had a hysterical edge and ended with a sigh of exhaustion. "Do they sell tickets to this little fantasy world you live in, or can people just wander in off the street? Because let me tell you, after the day I've had-"

"I'm serious, Annie. You weren't there at the end."

"And where were _you_ exactly?"

The train pounded through him, full steam, and he braced a hand on the trunk.

Annie was standing still as a stone but radiating so much energy the air around her seemed to vibrate.

Footsteps approached but neither of them turned to look. She was still waiting for an answer.

"Everything all right here?"

The man's voice was calm and friendly, but with an undefined edge of authority that pricked Murphy's nerves. Then he saw that it came from a polo shirt, cargo pants-wearing ad for hair gel. Beside him was their friend Officer Chaffey, but Murphy was in no mood for a reunion.

"Right peachy, little boy," he said to the polo shirt. "Why don't you scamper off and mind your own?"

Annie grimaced. "Murphy-"

"I have every intention," polo shirt guy said, stepping to the curb. "But first-Annie, we have a few more questions for you and Felix. Would you mind joining us inside?"

Annie glared pointedly at Murphy. "Of course, Detective Beckman-"

"Please, call me Josh."

She smiled at him, and Murphy had the sudden urge to knock out all those white teeth, detective or not. "Actually,_ Josh_, we're having a conversation here," he said. "Could you give us a minute?"

Beckman took off his mirrored Oakleys. "I'm afraid my questions can't wait." He looked meaningfully at Annie.

"I'm sorry, I told him about Frankie," Annie said guiltily. "He knows."

Beckman carefully folded one earpiece down and hung the glasses from the collar of his shirt. "It's all right. In fact, we need to speak with _all_ of the deceased's friends and associates. You'll have to come with me as well."

"Sorry, detective," Murphy said, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and eyeing it deliberately, "but I couldn't exactly call Frankie a friend. Or an associate."

The use of Frankie's name seemed to trigger Beckman's suspect button. "And what could you call him, exactly? You do understand the seriousness of a homicide investigation, Mr…."

Murphy looked him in the eye. "MacManus."

"MacManus." The cops exchanged a look, Chaffey giving a slight, reluctant nod. Beckman ducked a little to see Connor in the front seat, and an infuriating smirk of recognition tweaked his lips. "Well, I'll be damned."

One can hope, Murphy thought.

"I guess you _do_ understand," Beckman said.

"Am I missing something?" Annie asked Murphy.

Murphy stared the detective down, amazed he could hate a man so much in so little time.

Beckman seemed amused. "I'm going to guess _yes_."

Chaffey cleared his throat. "You can trust him, Detective. If Murphy says he didn't know the guy-"

"I don't trust anyone, Chaffey. Least of all…" His eyes scanned Murphy from head to toe, and he made no effort to hide his disdain. When his gaze shifted to the open trunk Murphy slammed it closed.

The driver door opened and Connor was at his side, extending a hand to shake Chaffey's.

"Good to see you, Mike. Though, hell of a circumstance. Aren't you usually with that red-headed fellow?"

"They got me on homicide for now," Chaffey said with a flattered smile as if he'd been remembered by a celebrity. "The rest of the detectives have been downtown all morning. We're spread pretty thin these days." He hooked his thumbs in his pockets and nodded to Annie. "EMS too, I guess. Where's Leah?"

"It's not our usual shift, thank God. I think she was going to meet her dad for lunch."

Beckman rocked back on his heels. "Really? That's interesting."

Connor dropped the friendly façade. "Who did you say you were?"

"Detective Joshua Beckman, South Boston P.D."

Murphy half expected him to flash a shiny badge.

Connor gave his hand a slightly more than solid shake. "Connor MacManus."

"So I'd surmised."

Connor smiled blandly. "New to the department, are you?"

"Since St. Patty's, if that's what you mean."

Annie took a step back so she could look at Connor and Murphy at once. "Is this Bizarro world? Could one of you please explain how you're on a first-name basis with every other cop in the city?"

Chaffey examined his boots. Connor looked at Murphy. So did Beckman, smiling his prick smile.

Murphy ignored him. He turned the album over in his hands, for some reason reluctant now to give it back. "Maybe some time when you're not working-"

Annie took the album. "I work a lot," she said, her voice clipped but low enough that only Murphy could hear. "Also I have this preference for the truth, so I wouldn't want to waste your time."

His jaw clenched, but he smiled since Beckman was watching. "Tell Jake we'll be around."

"Sure," she said, and Murphy couldn't be certain if that was 'sure, I'll tell him,' or 'sure you will, yeah right.' But already she was heading back inside, with Beckman and Chaffey following in her wake.

He watched Beckman guide her to the sofas with a hand on her back.

"Easy, Murph," Connor said. "The prick's got to do his job, so we can do ours."

"Just get in the car, Con. Get us the fuck out of here."

.

.

_**Author's Note**__: I did my best to make it self-explanatory, but for anyone wondering, here's the translation of Murphy's lines:_

_(French) "She saw the glass, Con. I think she knows."_

_(Gaelic) "Blue glass. _Stuck in my head_." _

_Thanks to IrishGaelicTranslator dot com for their help – real people are smarter than Google. And real betas are even better-thanks GoddessLaughs!_

.


	12. Smecker

**[Chapter 12: Smecker]**

**.**

**_Author's Note: This chapter is dedicated to GoddessLaughs - Congratulations and good luck! You deserve it!_**

* * *

Murphy rubbed his temples. "I need a drink."

Connor stopped for a light, running a hand through his hair. "I need a sandwich."

"Dooley's it is."

* * *

Dooley's Sports Pub was a nearly respectable, worn-in establishment two blocks north of Bay Street, and had the best pastrami on rye in Southie. Murphy finished his in record time, not even reaching for his stout until his plate was empty.

The Patriots played the Jets on the giant flat-screen on the wall, and he stared in the general direction of the game, his thoughts pin-balling around the events of the last twelve hours.

"We need to find Smecker," he said at last. "We need to figure out what the hell is going on."

"He hasn't called us yet," Connor said around a mouth full of cheese steak, "which means he's still picking through the ashes at Scud's office. He can't let us know what's going on until he knows it himself."

"What _I_ want to know is—how did the shooter find out about Frankie? Zeke said the kid didn't want to talk, but if he spent the rest of the night getting stoned-"

"Hold up there, Sherlock," Connor said. "That's a mighty big leap. It sounds to me like Frankie may have been reaping something else he sowed. It might not even be related."

"Are you off your fucking rocker? Our one and only lead gets a bullet through his heart, hours after we're pumping him for information, and you think it's a coincidence?"

"I thought we established he _wasn't_ our one and only lead." Connor's good eye narrowed. "And how do you know where he was shot?"

Murphy turned his attention back to the game. "Annie mentioned it."

"Did she now," Connor said, pushing his plate away. "She mention anything else you'd like to share?"

The Patriots' receiver missed a pass and the Jets intercepted. Murphy swirled his beer. "It wasn't a crime scene report, Con."

"Meaning you didn't ask. Look, I know we've got some serious shit to take care of and your personal life's not exactly high priority, but could you get a handle on the soap opera? I thought you'd sorted all your shit with Annie."

Murphy took his time draining his glass, having no intention of getting sucked into a conversation he'd managed to avoid for three years.

Connor made the older-brother face. "Look, all I'm saying is, if it's going to be an issue-"

"She was having a hard time, all right? Frankie getting shot-it reminded her of Roc." Murphy set his glass down. "She didn't need me or anyone else giving her the third degree."

"'Course not," Connor said, wiping his hands on a napkin. "She'll have Beckman for that. Though I get the feeling that pretty lad's more of a hand-holder." His mouth curled up at one corner. "Figuratively speaking."

"The prick can hold whoever's hand he wants. Bottom line is, he reports to Smecker." He flagged the waitress for the check. "Make sure you keep that phone on."

* * *

"Believe me," Connor said when they were back in the car, "the second he can get away, he'll let us know. But I don't think it's going to be anytime soon."

Between them in one of the drink holders, the cell phone rang. Connor snagged it and checked the display. "But then, I've been wrong before."

Murphy smacked the underside of Connor's hand, popping the phone from his grip and snatching it in midair.

"Mother_fucker_," Connor hissed.

But Murphy had already answered it. "We need to talk."

"No shit." The sound of Smecker's voice was oddly comforting, despite the irritable tone.

"You in the neighborhood?"

"Not even close. This one's going to have to be long distance."

"We'll take what we can get," Murphy said. They'd just passed St. Augustine's but Connor whipped the LTD back around and into the church parking lot. The grounds were empty save for a group of schoolboys roughhousing near the playground.

Connor cut the engine and Murphy angled the phone to let him listen in.

"I'm up to my eyeballs," Smecker was saying, "so I gotta make this quick. Duffy told me about last night. And this morning. I'm hoping you've been back to the tattoo parlor to get the right name."

Murphy closed his eyes at the reminder of his complete and utter failure. "It's a dead end, Smecker. Unless Detective J. Crew uncovers something in his Frankie investigation– something that doesn't point to _us_-we're back to fucking square one."

"So you met Beckman."

"We did," Connor said, glancing at Murphy. "Quite a pretty little wanker he is. Bit surprised we didn't see Dolly or Duffy with him."

"Aye," Murphy said, "_Josh_ doesn't strike me as a sympathizer."

"He's a fucking pain in the ass," Smecker said. "That's why I put him on the Hayes case-"

"Is it now?" Murphy asked, unsure why that bothered him.

"Don't get me wrong, he's good. He's damn good. That's why he's such a pain in the ass. It's not easy digging through this Scuderi case on two levels with that kid double-checking every square inch of ground I've covered." Smecker sighed. "I need him distracted."

"With the pot-head's murder. You know, Frankie did work for a friend of ours, that tat shop owner."

"A bit of trivia that might have been helpful to know last night," Connor muttered.

Murphy held up a warning hand. "Don't even start."

"I'm just sayin'."

"Guys," Smecker cut in, "he'll do the kid justice, I can promise you that. Listen, I'm doing the best I can here. It's likely Beckman will crack the Hayes case quicker than I would myself. Only catch is there's no guarantee how close he'll come to the two of you in the process."

"You're not worried he'll miss something important while he's on the hunt for two masked gunmen?"

Across the line, Murphy heard a car door shut and an engine turn over. "Something important about our Scuderi killer you mean?" Smecker asked. "Murphy, you're assuming a connection there that doesn't necessarily exist."

Connor elbowed him. "That's what _I_ said."

"There has to be a connection," Murphy insisted. "This can't be a coincidence. Murderin' bastard had a busy night is all. The office fire started around midnight, right? You get a time of death yet on Frankie?"

"Well, you may be surprised to know that Frankie actually died this morning. His body was discovered only a few hours after he'd been shot. ME's still working on it, but we know he was alive around eight a.m., when an officer went back to follow up on the report. But timeframe's not the issue."

"Then what is the issue? When the officer talked to him, did Frankie name anyone? Anyone who might have been after him?"

"Apparently, he didn't even want to file the report," Smecker said, "much less name names. The kid's hands were far from clean, and it's a cold fact, but in this town, when you start dealing with the wrong people-"

"Paul," Connor said with a laugh, "did you forget who you're talking to?"

"Sorry," Smecker said. "The point is, I have another murder vic on my hands, one with a concrete link to Scuderi's killer. There's no question which path I need my men following."

"Aye, but-"

"Hold on, Paul," Connor cut in. Covering the mouthpiece with one hand, he smacked Murphy with the other. "Would you shut up and let the man do his job? _He's_ the fucking genius investigator here."

"Doesn't mean I'm wrong."

"Sure as hell doesn't mean you're right! For Christ's sake, the man tracked us down in under a week, changed bloody sides, and even managed to keep his fucking job without ever bringing us in! If anybody knows the steps to this fucking dance, it's the flaming special agent, not the goddamn wanted fugitive."

"There's two of us goddamn fugitives, you know."

"Aye, but only one of us's forgot his fucking place in all this."

"Well, I can't argue that, Con. Seems you've forgotten quite a bit more than that. Like, _we don't work for the fucking uniforms_."

"Teaming up with them is the best choice we've made since we started this. You want to play alone now, after the courthouse, after everything? Aye, that's using your fucking brain."

"That's my point, Con. I am using my fucking brain, but you don't hear a damn word– maybe you'd listen if I was wearing a bad suit and trench coat."

"Fuck you," Connor said. "You had your chance to call the shots-"

"I'm talking about _both_ of us calling the shots. Me and you together—not the cops, not the FBI. I don't like being told not to trust my instincts."

"Murph, your instincts told you to shake down Frankie Hayes."

"Let's not forget whose lying instincts started that disaster. I think I'll stick with trusting my gut and not what _you_ think is best for me."

"What I think," Connor said evenly, "is that you're charged up cause you made a big fucking mess and now we need Smecker's help to clean it up." He shifted in his seat, uncovering the phone before Murphy could answer. "Sorry about that," he said to Smecker.

"Everything all right?" Smecker asked, his tone so dry Murphy doubted Connor's success at covering the phone.

"Fine," Murphy said, just as dryly. He reached over to crack the window, feeling cramped now with the overbearing presence of people who treated him like he was stupid.

"Tell us about the janitor," Connor said, staring straight ahead, no longer tilting the phone, so that Murphy had to strain to hear Smecker on the other end.

"Yamir Kandukuri, 53 years of age. Left behind a wife, two grown daughters and a grandson. Employed by Professional Janitorial Services of Boston and assigned to Scuderi's Downtown Crossing office for the past two years. He would have been the only one in the building at the time of the fire."

"Nobody was working late that night?" Murphy asked.

"Apparently not. They've got a key-card system that keeps track of whose key is used and when. Janitor's was the only one used after hours. Interestingly, the company's policy is to keep the doors locked during late night cleanings, but there was no evidence of any breaking and entering."

"Janitor could have let someone in," Connor said. "Bastard could have contacted him, promised him a bonus and gave him a bullet instead."

"We thought of that, too. But it doesn't feel right. Kandukuri's boss went on and on about him - hard worker, always on time, never complained, never asked for a raise. No criminal record. Tax paying, law-abiding citizen, yada yada. If he did let someone in – he probably knew they belonged there."

Murphy rubbed his chin. "Someone who worked in the building with Scuderi. Maybe claimed they forgot their key, then took the poor guy down once he let them inside."

Smecker took a thoughtful breath. "It would explain how the killer would know the office cleaning schedule. We're checking alibis, so we'll find out soon enough."

"Any progress on the missing file?" Murphy asked. "You know, with Beckman out of the way, chasing us."

Smecker sighed. "Well, we finally got to peruse Scuderi's file cabinets. Unfortunately, everything we wanted a warrant for was destroyed."

"I thought you said his cabinets were fireproof."

"Drawers were opened. Looks like that's where the fire started. They managed to put it out before it brought down the entire building, but Scuderi's office is a pile of ash."

"So, it's a cover-up then," Connor said. "Gettin' rid of the files before someone finds out."

"Possible," Smecker said. "But he might also have found and taken the file, and then set the fire to cover his tracks."

"In which case the murderin' fun's going to continue." Murphy's head began to ache. Again.

"I'm working on a warrant for any files Scuderi may have kept at home, although his wife insists that he didn't keep anything at the house, other than on his laptop or in his briefcase, both of which have conveniently gone missing."

"Won't the police still have it?" Murphy asked.

Smecker was silent for a beat. "Have what?"

"Scuderi's briefcase, from Friday night. They must have it locked up as evidence if they didn't return it to his wife."

Another pause. "There was no briefcase of any kind found at the scene."

For a moment, no one said anything. The sound of rushing traffic carried from Smecker's end of the line.

Connor sat up straight, taking the phone from him. "Well, sure there was," he told Smecker. "It was right there on the gurney with him. They couldn't have missed it."

But Smecker's silence said otherwise. There was no way the briefcase could have been missed, but it sounded like the police had done exactly that. Murphy looked at Connor. The frown line in his brother's forehead deepened.

"Tell me you'd have noticed if our mystery shooter made off with it," Smecker said finally.

Murphy closed his eyes, remembering the stand-off, the screaming sirens, the two-toned beater's window shattering as it sped away. It had all happened so fast.

"No way," Connor said. "There wasn't time."

Murphy rubbed the bridge of his nose. Where else could the case have gone? The cops should have found it almost immediately. Even then, he was pretty sure no one would have touched it until a crime scene photographer made a record of the whole scene. There was really only one possibility, and it wasn't a pleasant one.

He leaned closer to the phone, tilting it to make sure he was heard. "Only way this happens is if somebody's playing on the other team, Paul. How well do you know your boys?"

Smecker swore quietly. "I'll talk to Greenly. He's been hungover with half the department. Lot of tongue wagging when these guys hit the whiskey." He sighed. "You're _positive_ the briefcase was there when you left?"

"There's no where else it could have gone," Connor said. "We heard the siren, the bastard ran to his getaway and then we split as well. To tell you the truth, it's a fucking miracle nobody caught us."

"Miracle by the name of Leah Solomon," Smecker said, his voice weary. "In addition to leaving the two of you out of her story, she apparently also pointed the responding officers in the opposite direction."

Murphy blinked, thinking of the blonde woman. "I knew Connor wasn't that brilliant a driver."

"Better than you," Connor muttered.

"Well, let's hope our luck with your biggest fan doesn't run out. I'll need a statement from her before I can justify questioning any responding officers."

"You sure that's necessary?" Connor asked, reaching for the pack of cigarettes in the center console. "The statement she's already given has helped us plenty. Why give her the chance to make a hash of it?"

"Well, unfortunately it gets complicated when a man with secrets starts trying to dig around anyone else's. Officially, I've got no reason to think the briefcase was even there. I'm going to need more than a hypothetical conjecture to cross-examine the born and breds on their loyalty to the law."

"You need her to point a finger?"

"I need her to tell me the truth, the _whole_ friggin truth. I need her to trust me." There was quiet suddenly on Smecker's end, his engine cutting. His voice seemed closer now, the urgency amplified. "If I ask you to lie low for a while, will you do it?"

"How long is a while?" Murphy asked.

Connor flipped the pack of smokes open, then shut. Open, then shut.

"Until we can get our bearings," Smecker said. "I've still got Dolly looking into the Buffone connection, a BOLO on the getaway car, and I'm about to get to the bottom of this briefcase mystery."

A time frame was glaringly absent from his answer, which didn't sit well with Murphy. He gave Connor a look that didn't need to be explained.

Connor frowned. He shook a cigarette from the pack, hesitated, then shook out a second and lit them both, handing one to Murphy with a sideways glance.

Murphy let his brother's outstretched hand hang there a moment longer than necessary before he accepted. No man who knew Connor would expect an actual apology, but pride was hardly a reason to waste a perfectly good smoke.

"You've got twenty-four hours," Connor told Smecker. "Should give you enough time to talk to Leah again. I understand she's not on duty today."

Smecker let a beat pass before he answered. "Okay. Twenty-four hours."

Murphy blew a smoke ring toward Connor, who waved it away. "Tomorrow then," Murphy said to Smecker. "Same pew, same chapel? Mass is at noon."


	13. Questioning

**[Chapter 13: Questioning]**

.

The waiting area chairs in the South Boston Police Department were black, not blue. The windows were smaller, though there were more of them. And there was an acne-scarred young man sitting at the front desk, rather than the short, dark-haired woman that usually worked reception in Downtown Crossing. Other than that, the headquarters building wasn't all that different from the one Leah was used to.

The difference was the occasion for the visit. After she'd gotten the call from Agent Smecker last night, it had actually taken her more than thirty minutes to decide what to wear—more time than she'd taken to get ready for the last date she'd been on. Dress too casually, and she'd offend someone. Dress up too much, and she'd draw attention to herself. Avoiding the spotlight was priority one at this point. But she couldn't distance herself too much, or they'd begin to suspect. If they didn't already.

At long last, she'd settled on jeans and a navy-blue sweater, hoping the color would help her blend in with the rest of the uniforms on duty, and at least reduce the unwanted attention. That was when she'd remembered she was scheduled to work the next day, and for Smecker's meeting, she'd already be in uniform. The face-palm she'd given herself after that had actually left a mark.

Now, she paced the tiled floor of the station waiting area, pretending to look out the windows at the bland parking lot view. She could see the spot where one of the Southie ambulances usually posted, vacant now, the on-duty medics apparently out on a call.

A pang of what felt like homesickness beat in her chest, and for the hundredth time, she wished to go back in time a week, and back across town where she belonged.

Turning from the window, she saw Detective Duffy round the front desk and wave her over. Despite a shave and a change of clothes, he looked only marginally more rested than he had the night before at the church. His suit was a dark gray-ish, brown-ish that reminded her of the gunk that tended to build up on the floor of the ambulance. Any tie would have had a challenge matching that color, but the lavender one he'd chosen seemed particularly masochistic. The two-inch coffee stain down the middle of it completed the impression of the hard-working, if somewhat hapless detective. If she didn't already know better, she might be inclined to trust him.

"Leah, thanks so much for coming down. Come on back, you don't have to wait out here."

She followed him through the labyrinth, ignoring the curious eyes that stuck on her and the conversations that fell silent as she passed.

"Agent Smecker should be here shortly," Duffy said as he opened the door to a windowed inner-office. The fair-haired detective Leah recognized from the news was already inside, standing at the desk, thumbing through the contents of a red file folder.

"Oh, Beckman," Duffy said flatly. "You're already here."

"Wouldn't want to miss this," Beckman said, closing the file and flashing a smile that was even more dashing in person than it was on TV. "Joshua Beckman," he said, offering her his hand. "I'm sorry, I've been so buried in this case, I forgot we hadn't actually met yet. Feel like I know you already."

"Oh," she said dumbly, shrugging out of her jacket. "There's really not much to know. At least not enough to get buried in."

"It's more the method than you personally. Allow me," he said, taking the jacket out of her hands and hanging it on the steel coat rack in the corner. "I like to immerse myself in every detail of a case," he continued, "no matter how small or seemingly insignificant." He glanced at Duffy and added, "Bugs the hell out of the boss sometimes, but it's my job, right? You understand."

He placed a slight emphasis on _you_ that caught her ear, and she resisted the urge to frown.

"We really do appreciate you coming down," Duffy said. "I'm sure you've got better things to do on your day off."

"It's no problem," Leah said. "This is more important." Both detectives seemed to agree and she gave herself a point for brown-nosing. "Have you made any progress with the investigation?"

"We'd like to be making more," Beckman said. "We're counting on you to help with that."

"One step at a time, Beckman," Duffy said. "Can I get you anything, Leah? Coffee? Water?"

"No thanks, I'm good."

There was a beat of silence, and she realized no one else was sitting because she wasn't. Jeez, when had chivalry come back into style?

She ran her hand over the back of the chair. It was black metal and fabric, cheap but marginally comfortable. Not intended to demoralize or intimidate, like the steel, cushion-less model she imagined they used in the interrogation rooms. She glanced around the small office. It was a man's domain, colorless and cramped but workably functional, tolerable only because of the mini-blind covered windows on nearly every wall. There was no bright spotlight, no two-way mirror. No reason for this irrational trepidation squeezing her chest.

Pretending to check the time on her watch, she closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath. She could still help this investigation, she knew she could. With any luck, everyone involved would get what they deserved, and with a whole lot of luck, the secrets she reluctantly held would never, ever come to light.

But with detectives primed to immerse themselves in every small and seemingly insignificant detail of her life—it was bound to get harder before it got easier.

"How're you feeling today?" Beckman asked. "Heard you had a late night."

She opened her eyes quickly. He'd been leaning against a file cabinet, watching her. "Just part of the job," she said, guessing her make-up was doing little to hide the dark circles under her eyes and the lingering bruise on her cheek. "You understand."

Beckman smiled slightly, peering through the mini-blinds again. "About time," he muttered, and opened the door.

Agent Smecker entered, looking coolly out of place in a slate-gray suit and cream shirt amid the precinct's sea of navy blue.

"Ms. Solomon," he greeted her, "Thank you so much for coming down. Would you like anything? Coffee, water, soda?"

"I'm fine," she said for a second time. "Thanks."

"Just want to get this over with?"

She smiled in spite of herself. "Is it that obvious?"

He gestured to the chair. "Please—sit. Just need to clarify a few things. We'll try to make this as painless as possible."

Taking a breath, she sat. All she had to do was keep her story straight, and all that required was remembering what she'd already told them. Anything beyond that she would simply claim not to recall. Easy, right? Simple.

Smecker laid open the red file and sifted through the documents. Duffy caught her eye and smiled. Beckman returned to his crossed-arm lean against the file cabinet. Hovering. She wished he'd sit down.

Then Smecker produced a tape recorder and her heart skipped a beat. "For record-keeping only," he assured her. "Don't want to have to call you in again to ask the same questions." He pressed the red button and spoke the date, time and names of those present.

"Let's begin. Eugene Scuderi was conscious when you exited his office building, according to your report. Did he say anything indicating he knew or suspected who his attackers might be?"

"No, he didn't," she answered truthfully. Maybe this wouldn't be that bad.

"Did the attackers indicate what they were seeking from Scuderi?"

"You mean, other than to kill him? Not that I recall."

"And Scuderi didn't ask?" Smecker's tone was doubtful.

Leah shifted in her chair. "He was scared. We all were. But he was in pretty bad shape. Chances are he might have died anyway, even without the gunshot wounds."

"Even so, he still could have asked what they wanted," Beckman said.

"Have you ever experienced a myocardial infarction?" she asked him.

Beckman's brows drew together and she gave him the look she gave Annie fifty times a day. "He was having a _heart attack_. He could hardly breathe, much less carry on a conversation. And anyway, maybe he already knew what they wanted. Maybe he had a guilty conscience."

Beckman stood a fraction straighter, looking down on her. "You think he was expecting it? Expecting to pay for something?"

Leah tried, but she couldn't hold his gaze. "Some might put it that way."

Smecker cleared his throat. "Let's move on," he said, consulting the document in front of him. "Your wrists were bound with plastic cable ties, is that correct?"

"Correct."

"But your partner John's were not."

She nodded, unsure she liked where this was headed. Smecker pointed to the recorder.

"That's right," she said aloud. "They wanted him to tie the patient's hands – Scuderi's – to the gurney."

"But John didn't do it."

"He tried stalling, thinking they were after our narcotics - that's pretty common. But then they knocked him unconscious."

Smecker nodded, his expression almost sympathetic.

Beckman shifted his position slightly, resting one arm on top of the file cabinet. "Why would these men have wanted Scuderi bound?"

Smecker turned to the young detective with one eyebrow peaked. "Why don't you take a seat, Beckman." It wasn't a question.

Beckman obeyed, pulling a spare rolling desk chair from the corner.

Smecker gave Leah a small smile. "Generally we prefer witnesses to stick to the facts, rather than opinions. But since it's already out there – any thoughts?"

"On what was going through the murderers' heads? They wanted to kill him," she said, shrugging. "Honestly, you guys are the experts on criminal behavior. I really don't think my speculation's going to add anything here."

Smecker laid the file down. "Let me tell you what we know – as the experts." He looked at Duffy.

Duffy leaned forward in his chair. "If the two masked men you've described had the sole intention of ending the life of Eugene Scuderi—they would have simply shot him and walked away. No hands tied, no bothering with hostages."

Leah listened carefully, hoping to give the impression that this angle was all new to her.

"There are variations, of course," he added. "If they were smart, they'd still have bound you or otherwise kept you from calling for help until they could make a clean getaway."

"Or killed you," Beckman said. "Leo Buffone didn't like to leave witnesses."

"Beckman, why don't you get Ms. Solomon some water?" Smecker asked.

Though his expression remained blank, Beckman hesitated just long enough that Leah could feel the unspoken resistance. He opened the door to leave as the young man from the front desk appeared outside.

"Agent Smecker, the Chief wants to speak with you. He's um…I don't think he wants to wait."

Smecker sighed, clicking the tape recorder off. "Let's take a break everyone. Be back in ten."

As he left, Leah got up to leave as well. No way could she handle Beckman for ten long, awkward minutes.

"I'm going to run to the restroom," she told them.

Beckman fell into step beside her. "I'll show you the way," he said.

"Oh. Thanks."

They turned a corner past the break room and the water cooler. Beckman pointed her down a short hallway to the bathroom doors.

The ladies' room was cold, the mirror dimly lit, making the darkness under her eyes even more apparent. She leaned in to examine the bruise on her cheek and sighed. Could be worse, she thought.

_Could be dead._

She could be sharing the morgue refrigerator with Leo Buffone and Martha Osborne. And that poor janitor from Scuderi's office, what was his name? She closed her eyes.

Yamir Kandukuri. Another innocent victim, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Only there'd been no one to save Yamir.

What would Yamir have done, if he'd been the one spared? Would he have tried to keep his unknown saviors a secret? Or would he have done what was asked of him and let the chips fall?

What would John have done?

In a way it was lucky that he'd been unconscious, or else they'd both be trying to keep their stories straight. Assuming John shared her point of view on the matter. In his hospital room, she'd wanted so badly to tell him the truth—_that_ part of it at least-but between the nurses and doctors and his hovering wife, she'd pathetically chickened out.

Of course, she'd also been preoccupied with the real reason for her visit to MGH.

Her stomach clenched at the thought.

God, what was she doing? Why _hadn't_ she told John what really happened?

A tiny voice answered in her head:

_Because you knew what he'd say._

He'd have told her to come clean. To suck it up and admit everything, and why. No one would fault her for it.

Any consequences she faced now had to be better than what would come if the cops found out later on their own.

Closing her eyes against the growing nausea, she felt for the faucet and splashed cold water on her face until it subsided.

She returned to the water cooler quickly, too quickly she realized when Beckman handed her a pointed paper cup of water, the kind you drink right there and throw away. She took it reluctantly and swallowed it in one gulp.

"So I got to meet your partner this morning," Beckman said, deftly taking the cup from her hand and refilling it, apparently thinking she was parched.

"John?"

"Him too, yesterday. This morning I met your new partner, Annie. Nice girl."

"Yeah, she's all right. It's just temporary, though."

"Oh," Beckman said, his eyes narrowing. "I thought—didn't John tell you? He's decided to go ahead with his retirement."

_What?_

No wonder their conversation had been so stilted at the hospital. It was bad news from all sides. Leah tried to form an intelligent response but came up empty. "Oh."

Beckman explained, seeming surprised at her ignorance, "He was planning to stay for another six months, but he gave his notice this morning. I'm sorry, I thought you knew."

"It's fine," Leah said, embarrassed when her voice hitched. How could he do this to her now? "It's about time, he's been putting it off for years."

From the corner of her eye she noticed Detective Duffy step half way out of the break room with a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

Beckman watched her for a moment, his eyes assessing. "He's lucky you know, and so are you. Buffone's M.O. was to shoot first and come up with a reason later. You could easily be dead right now."

Leah refilled her water again, not sure if she wanted Duffy to walk over and interrupt. "Yes, I realize that," she said to Beckman. "And I'm very grateful."

"To anyone in particular?"

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You know, Agent Smecker has a great deal of confidence in you," Beckman told her, his voice lowering. "In your reputation, in your ability to…assist us, should the need arise."

"What exactly do you mean, _assist_ you?"

Duffy was still in the break room doorway, his attention seemingly elsewhere.

"Well, when I—I mean _we_-catch the killer, reliable witnesses like yourself can be invaluable when the case goes to trial. People whose stories won't break down upon cross-examination. What do you think, Leah? Are you one of those people?" He smiled that stupid, charming smile and took a sip of water.

She looked him in the eyes and said absolutely nothing. If she was going to confess the truth to anyone, it wouldn't be to an asshole like Beckman.

Duffy stepped over and clapped Beckman on the shoulder. "It's about that time, guys. Let's not keep the agent waiting." He didn't look her in the eye, and he didn't comment on what Beckman had said. But she was pretty sure Duffy had heard the entire exchange.

They walked single file back to the office, allowing her to avoid Beckman temporarily. He neglected to close the door behind him, and she would have done it herself except his eyes had the heat of a spotlight and seemed to be judging her every move.

Smecker, already waiting, pressed the button on the tape recorder.

"Items found on Scuderi's person included his wallet – credit cards, ID, eighty-four dollars cash…" He consulted a report briefly, then set it aside. "His keys – house, Hummer, yacht, office…"

Good God, this was never going to end. She cleared her throat. "We all know it wasn't a mugging."

"Mugging, no. But not a simple assassination either. They wanted something. Clearly it wasn't material. Likely it was information - not something they could have found in his office, or else they would have taken his keys-"

"But didn't someone break into his office last night?"

Smecker and Duffy exchanged a look.

"And _burn it down_?"

Beckman began, "We're looking into a possible connection, but-"

"A _possible_ connection?" Leah exclaimed. "You should be chasing down the damn arsonist, not talking to me!"

Smecker got up calmly and closed the door. Heat rushed to her face and she sat back, folding her hands in her lap.

"Scuderi's key wasn't used," Smecker explained. "And the fact remains that the greatest aid in this investigation is going to be finding out what this man was after. So, Leah, you'll understand when I ask you again – did you overhear the perpetrators asking Scuderi for something-anything?"

She took a breath, and forced herself to look the agent in the eye. But she could feel Beckman hovering on the peripheral.

"No," she lied.

Smecker's mouth hardened ever so slightly. "Are you sure? Think hard."

Her heart began to pound. "No, I'm sorry."

Beckman asked, "Is there anything you _do_ remember?"

"I have already _told_ you everything I remember."

Beckman smiled patiently, as if addressing a child. "Why don't you run it by us again?"

"Fine," she snapped. "The man who shot Eugene Scuderi was six feet tall, one-eighty-five, probably white, and he had at least one other partner who was driving his getaway car. He's from the Boston area, or somewhere in New England, judging from his accent. He was wearing a black hooded Colombia snowboarding jacket, black nylon warm-up pants with gray stripes and black Adidas tennis shoes. With white laces. He wore a ski mask and gloves—not leather gloves, the knit kind. Also black. One of the fingers-" She closed her eyes. "Third finger on the left hand had a hole on the knuckle. He was strong. He was very angry. And he would have killed me too if…if…"

Damn it. She'd done it again.

She glanced up at Smecker. Hands pressed together at the fingertips, he was the picture of studious concentration. His fingertips had gone white.

Duffy sat with an arm thrown over the back of the next chair, his coffee cup held in the other hand, half-way to his mouth.

Only Beckman moved, leaning forward with elbows on his knees. "Yes? If what?"

Shit! Leah forced another lie past the furiously woven mess in her mind. "…if Officer Chaffey's siren hadn't scared him off."

She pinched her lips together and looked straight ahead, not able to meet any of the three pairs of staring eyes. She couldn't do it. Not like this.

Her gaze fell on the red case file on the desk, on the words written in Sharpie on the label tab. She read them upside-down, her heart skipping when she realized the scrawled letters did not spell _Eugene Scuderi_.

They spelled _Leah Solomon_.

Smecker followed her eyes. Saying nothing, he closed the folder. "Last question," he said quietly. "Do you remember if the killer took anything?"

She hesitated. What did they know? Why did they have an entire file about her?

Smecker asked again, "Did the killer flee the scene with anything belonging to victim?"

She could feel the sweat now, beading under her hair, pricking in her armpits. "No, sir, he did not."

Beckman spun a half circle in his chair and asked offhandedly, "What about his briefcase?"

She swallowed, fixing her eyes on Smecker, whose mouth fell open very briefly before closing into a firm line. Expression unreadable, the agent said nothing—merely raised one eyebrow, awaiting her response.

If they already knew, why didn't they just confront her?

Unless…

She cleared her throat and jumped off the cliff. "What briefcase?"

Beckman looked at her as if surely she was joking, and she knew immediately that his question was anything but off-hand. "The one containing Scuderi's laptop computer," he said. "The one he insisted on bringing with him in the ambulance. The one you offered to carry for him, but that he insisted on holding onto himself while strapped to the gurney. Shall I read you a description of it?" he asked, reaching for the file on the desk. "Your partner John recalled it quite clearly."

The betrayal was a knife to the gut. It didn't matter that it was unknowingly done. John couldn't have made this worse if he'd tried. A chill ran across her shoulders and she turned it into a silent shrug.

"Beckman, what is this? When did you speak with John Jaworski?" Smecker asked.

Beckman straightened his shoulders. "On my way from the coroner's this morning with the Frankin Hayes case. Didn't want to miss the opportunity, being so close."

"And he just happened to volunteer this information?"

"I asked him," Beckman said with a slight raise of his chin. "When a briefcase didn't turn up in the office fire or at Scuderi's home, I knew we were missing something."

"Hmm," Smecker said. His eyes flicked over to Duffy's then back to Leah's.

"Ms. Solomon?" Beckman prompted.

As discretely as possible, she wiped damp palms on her pants. "I-I don't really remember."

"So you remember the white shoelaces and the hole on the third knuckle of the black knit gloves, but…" He paced the floor, letting the question trail off.

She fought against the heat boiling to the surface, horrified when her eyes began to sting.

"Beckman, give her a break," Duffy said, then to Leah, "Joshua's specialty is interrogation."

"Of course it is," she said. "I'm sorry I forgot the briefcase, I guess it slipped my mind what with all the bullets flying around me. Next time I'm attacked at gunpoint I'll be sure to take notes."

Smecker's mouth twitched a bit at the corners. "All right, all right," he said.

Beckman's face registered nothing. He cocked his head to the side. "Yes, about those bullets," he said to Leah. "Was it before or after the murderer shot his own partner that he managed to shoot Scuderi from both sides at once?"

"That's enough, Beckman," Smecker said, rising from his chair.

Duffy shot him a glare. "She not a suspect, Beckman."

"Let her answer," Beckman said.

Composing her words carefully, Leah struggled to assume the tone of the falsely accused. "If he was shot from both sides, obviously two shooters had to still be alive."

Beckman stared at her. "Obviously."

"Beckman," Smecker warned.

Beckman's attitude was walking the line of insubordination. "I only ask, _sir_, because her previous statement seems to contradict the laws of physics."

Leah threw up her hands. "Does it really matter what order they died in? It all happened in a matter of seconds!"

"She's right, Beckman. Forget the shooting for now. What can you tell us about the briefcase, Leah?"

Everything about Smecker's face was hard and unyielding, but there was something in the agent's voice that seemed to plead with her for the truth.

She knew now it was the one thing she couldn't give him. "I'm really sorry, but I just don't remember."

Beckman rolled his eyes. "With all due respect, sir-"

Smecker punched the tape recorder off. "I think that's enough for today. Ms. Solomon, thank you for your time. We appreciate all you've done in regards to the case. I'll walk you out."

That was it?

"It's no problem," she said, standing quickly before he changed his mind. "I wish there was more I could do."

Beckman scoffed under his breath.

"You've done plenty," Duffy said, sounding entirely sincere. "Go home. Get some sleep."

Smecker guided her to the door with a gentle hand on her back.

Beckman handed her her jacket, saying nothing.

Outside in the hall, with the exit in sight, it was all she could do not to break into a run.

The walk through the precinct seemed endless. At last they reached the double doors.

Smecker paused before opening it to pull a business card from his wallet. "Thank you again, Leah. You've gone above and beyond. And I'm sorry about Beckman. He… means well."

She smiled at the irony. "I guess we all do, Agent Smecker. I hope you can see that. And I-I'm sorry I couldn't be more help."

"I know you are," he said seriously, offering her the card. "I want you to know, if you ever want to discuss this – if you remember _anything_ that might be useful – it's always safe to talk to me. This is my cell phone number. Call me anytime."

She took the card and forced a smile. "Of course."

.

* * *

.

"She's lying," Beckman said, watching them make their way down the hall.

"Yes, you made that opinion very clear," Duffy said. "Have you _ever_ questioned a witness before?"

Beckman turned around. "It's not my opinion, it's a fact. And you know it."

Duffy crushed his coffee cup in his fist before tossing it in the wastebasket. "All I know, Beckman, is that you just fucked up what should have been a cut-and-dry interview." His phone rang, and checked it, frowning. "God, I wish I could be here when Smecker gets back, but unfortunately, I've got actual work to do."

Beckman watched him go, irritated that the senior detective hadn't mentioned which pending case he was going to work on. It was getting tiresome – the good ol' boy network that seemed to permeate every inch of the city. Making detective was supposed to be an achievement, his ticket into the invisible club. But now that he was on South Boston's first team, he seemed more than ever to be the player left on the bench. In the lower ranks, he'd assumed it was because he wasn't a Southie native. But Smecker wasn't from Southie either, and the division was even worse now that he was on the special agent's team. Only Greenly didn't seem to have it in for him. And that wasn't saying much.

But no matter. There was one sure way to gain his rightful place.

Lifting the red file from Smecker's desk, he wandered over to Greenly's. Greenly and two patrol officers, Chaffey and Mitchell, were laughing about something but stopped abruptly at Beckman's approach.

"What's up, Beckman? You going for bagels again?" With two fingers Greenly picked one up off a napkin that looked like it may have been left over from the day before. He made face and dumped it into the trash under his desk.

"I thought bagels was your job," Mitchell said.

"Fuck no, man," Greenly said, grinning at Beckman. "Not anymore."

"Was that Leah Solomon I saw walk through here?" Chaffey asked. "She looks…like she's doing well. Better, I mean. Than she did on Friday."

Greenly and Mitchell chuckled wickedly.

Chaffee's face got red. "Well, she's supposed to be on admin leave. What'd you call her in for?"

"Follow up," Greenly told him. "You get anything?" he asked Beckman.

"Hard to say," Beckman said. "Chaffey, weren't you one of the first on scene that night? Do you remember seeing a briefcase?"

Chaffey pursed his lips as he thought. "Nope. Lot of bodies, lot of blood, lot of damn rain—no briefcase. I think I'd remember."

"Yeah. Exactly," Beckman said, "Greenly, do you have a minute? I need to talk to you."

Greenly stretched and got up. "Don't you guys have some tickets to write?" he said to Chaffey and Mitchell. "C'mon, Beckman, I think there's donuts in the break room."

Greenly polished off two jelly-filleds while Beckman gave him the play-by-play.

"I don't know, man," Greenly said when he was done. "White shoelaces? Maybe she _has_ told us everything she knows. You gotta remember she was scared shitless at the time."

"That doesn't explain the briefcase. And it doesn't explain the bullets. And it sure as hell doesn't explain why the two of them are going soft on the load of bullshit she's feeding them." Beckman hesitated. It was risky talking about this with Greenly. "They wouldn't go this easy on a man."

Greenly laughed around his donut. "Yeah, that's it! You figured it out. _Smecker's_ got a soft spot for the ladies." He wiped his eyes. "Beckman. I thought you were a detective."

"Could be because she's a uniform."

"Sure, could be. But then, there is a reason we trust people like her – because they're _trustworthy_. We checked her out. She passed. No offense, man, but you're fishing. Without a lot of bait."

Beckman gripped the red file. Fishing was better than sitting in the precinct with his head up his ass like everyone else. But this was digging, not fishing.

And he was just getting started.

.


	14. Mass

**[Chapter 14: Mass]**

Lying low was going to kill him.

It wasn't that he couldn't handle it. Murphy could keep busy, going over plans, strategizing what their next move would have been if the Scuderi issue had never happened. Carmen Mancini was a problem they hadn't anticipated but probably should have, and it put the loss of Rocco into sharper focus than ever before. His mind would inevitably retreat from the subject, usually ending up on troubles less painful, infinitely more confusing, and decidedly female.

Having his Beretta to clean and, okay—play with—would have made the time pass a little easier, but he didn't. The purse pistol wasn't much of a substitute, but it was better than nothing. Waiting sucked, but he could do it.

Connor, on the other hand, was a bitching, whining, one-track-minded pain in the ass. When Murphy finally snapped and clobbered his brother to death with whatever blunt object was closest, which was bound to happen at any moment, he knew either his father, his mother, or his own inevitable guilt would eventually catch up with him and then he'd be six feet under as well.

No more Saints, no more justice, no more striking hammer of God.

He wondered if Smecker would take up the torch when that happened. Probably. In drag, no doubt.

Connor had spent the rest of Tuesday evening going over and over and over the same ground they'd already covered, disregarding Murphy's suggestions as conspiracy theories but not coming up with any new angles of his own. By the time the eleven o'clock news came on, they'd reached a silent stalemate. Murphy had had to fake a cigarette run to avoid Connor's post-media ranting. But, thoughtful brother that he was, Connor tagged along and let him have it on the go.

The only saving grace was the fact that they slept in separate rooms now, so at midnight Murphy pleaded exhaustion and escaped to his own private insomnia.

Connor was mercifully quiet in the morning, but breakfast at the Yolk broke the dam once again.

Thankfully, Connor spotted Jonas McGherkin from Noland's Meatpacking, and went over to say hello. Murphy was savoring the split second of peace and the last of his pancakes when his new friend Omar sidled over to push papers and try to bum cigarettes.

"Tell you what," Murphy told him, "There's a mass at St. Auggie's at noon. You show up, we'll teach you how to smoke like a man."

"I do smoke like man," Omar said without conviction.

"Of course you do, of course you do," Murphy said. "So I won't look for you at noon then, in the back pew on the left hand side."

Omar leaned against the opposite side of the booth, scoping out the patrons at the table behind Murphy. "You can't smoke in church. Everybody knows that."

"Not inside. The misbehavin' schoolboys tend to gather under the slides at the playground. We men can smoke wherever the hell we want. But my brother and I usually go outside the door to the west chapel."

"Okay. Maybe I'll see you out there."

"Not out there. You have to come _in_ first."

Omar's eyes narrowed, and Murphy hid a smile behind his coffee. For such a cocky kid, it didn't take much to scare him off.

Omar shifted his papers to the other arm. "I got to go," he said. "See you around."

"Back pew, left side," Murphy called after him.

Connor passed him in the aisle. "Hey there, kid. How's business?"

Omar glanced at Murphy over his shoulder. "Slow."

"It'll pick up," Connor said, clapping him on the shoulder as he walked away and turning to Murphy with a smug look in his eye. "Guess who's filling two open slots on second shift today? Didn't I tell you I'd take care of us?"

"McGherkin's taking us back? I thought after the Rosie thing…"

Connor shrugged. "She dropped the sexual harassment suit once McGherkin could show we were off the full-time payroll. He doesn't think a few shifts here and there will cause any problems."

"Halla-fucking-lujah." Murphy paid the bill and suggested they kill the rest of the morning combing the streets of North End for signs of the two-toned beater. At least if he had something else to concentrate on, Connor's bullshit would be easier to tune out.

Two hours later, they'd determined there was no shortage of shite vehicles in Boston's old Italian district, but – thanks to the detailed accuracy of Leah's description, not one of them matched enough to investigate further.

"We need to be checking this shit out ourselves," Connor said. "Smecker's a fool if he honestly expects Buffone's people to spill to the Dolly and the boys."

"Ah, so now Smecker's a fool is he? What happened to flaming genius detective?"

"I'm only saying there's certain things you and I might be able to learn that Dolly and the boys won't."

"Us being undercover and all," Murphy said, though his brother was probably right.

"Beats sitting around on our asses, doesn't it?"

"You don't mind sitting on your ass. You just don't want Smecker having all the fun with the witnesses."

Connor swore as he missed a turn. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Murphy said. "Well, you've the phone. Give Mama Del a ring if you want to play detective so bad."

Connor frowned at the cell phone in the console, but made no move to pick it up. "We really ought to."

"What we ought to do is give Jake a ring, see how he'd doing with the whole murdered employee."

"Aye, that'd be good," Connor said. "His number's in the phone."

Murphy looked at the phone, irritated beyond belief that his first thought was whether Annie might answer. As if it fucking mattered! Jake was the one they'd managed to screw over! He didn't care what Connor or Smecker said – there was a definite link between the visit they'd paid and the subsequent one that had left the kid dead.

He checked the time, impatient to meet Smecker and start putting the pieces of the puzzle together that would somehow prove him right. Only then could they start dealing with the consequences.

* * *

Another half hour of fruitless searching and they headed back to Southie, ending up at the church right on time.

There was no sign of Smecker in the sanctuary. Nor was he in the side chapel where they'd met previously, although Murphy had to look closely at the three old women lighting candles for Martha Osborne before he could be sure. They lingered in the lobby as long as possible until Sister Margaret ushered them through the double doors and into their customary back pew, then slipped past them with a small smile to take her place in the front.

There were only about forty or so parishioners attending the mid-day mass, several that he recognized, others who were dressed in work attire, likely picking St. Auggie's for its proximity to their jobs.

He watched the other worshipers as he knelt in time with the priest's words, his scripted responses blending automatically with Connor's. When a cell phone rang from the far-left side of the sanctuary, it barely registered until he heard the voice of the person who had the gall to answer it.

Agent Smecker raised a hand in generic apology and ducked into Martha's chapel.

Connor's elbow dug into his ribs, his brother already rising to follow the agent. They scooted out of the pew and slipped through the open doorway into the otherwise empty chapel. Agent Smecker waited at the exterior side door and held it open for them, his face all business.

"Sorry I'm late," he said when the door latched behind them. "Meeting ran longer than I planned."

"Success?" Connor asked.

Smecker plucked a cigarette from his thin silver case and pinched it in the corner of his mouth. "More like total cluster fuck."

"That bad?" Murphy said, moving to the far edge of the small concrete step to give them all more room. "I don't see any blood. No stitches, no shiners. Body count rising?"

Smecker didn't laugh, though he smiled a bit at Connor's black eye. "No bodies."

"Grand," Connor said, "Then what've you got for us?"

"What I have is a problem. _We_ have a problem. Leah Solomon's hiding something, and it's got nothing to do with her sharp-shooting guardian angels."

"No luck with the briefcase, then?"

Smecker sighed. "She wouldn't even acknowledge that the shooter asked for files. She claims to have forgotten entirely about the briefcase—which, from what we've learned about her, seems…unlikely."

"Still covering for us," Connor said.

"But that doesn't make any sense," Murphy said. "She watched us leave. If we'd wanted the briefcase, we'd have taken it. Why lie about it?"

"That," Smecker said, "is the real question. Is there _any_ chance she thinks you took it?"

Murphy shook his head. "We walked out of there empty-handed, yards away from where that case fell. Actually, _she'd_ have had an easier time snatchin' it."

"Mm-hmm."

Murphy paused at the response, realizing for the first time that that scenario was actually a possibility. He glanced at Connor but couldn't tell if his brother was on the same page.

"Well, we'll find out soon enough," Smecker continued. "My guys are back at the plaza now, digging through every possible nook and cranny _someone_ might have dumped the thing in."

_Someone_ was emphasized with no shortage of cynicism. He got the uncomfortable feeling that Smecker had already decided that Leah was working on her own agenda. Murphy shared a look with Connor, whose face was drawn tight. What had happened to letting the grateful survivor show her gratitude?

"What happens if you don't find it at the scene?" Connor asked, frowning. "You search her ambulance? Her home? You said yourself there's any number of people desperate for this information. If somebody's watching, you'll be making her a target."

Smecker rubbed his temples, face weary. "Connor…that's only part of the problem." But then his phone rang and he snapped it up, leaving the thought unfinished.

"Talk to me," he answered. "Excellent…Jesus, this just keeps getting better…Okay. Bag it, tag it, get it down to Tinkerman as soon as—yeah, ballistics first, obviously. And for God's sake, keep Beckman out of it."

He hung up, smiling triumphantly. "Good news and…interesting news. Greenly unearthed the briefcase in the dumpster behind Scud's office building—just as I suspected-three bags deep and covered in lox. Apparently, it had been ditched in one of the plaza trash cans, which city workers then emptied into the dumpster earlier this week."

Connor straightened. "They find the files?"

"Who's Tinkerman?"

"And why does he have to wait for ballistics?"

Smecker raised both hands to quiet them, the maestro smugly conducting his symphony. "Nothing of interest in the briefcase…other than Scud's laptop computer—and the three bullets lodged in the motherboard."

"The _what_?"

"Someone shot the fucking briefcase?"

"It appears quite likely now that the files we've been searching for were electronic."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Connor muttered.

"A cop," Murphy said, struggling to connect the thoughts racing through his brain. "That's what she's hiding. I fucking _knew_ it had to be one of the cops. Leah must have seen it. So either she's covering for whoever did it – or she's afraid of what will happen to her if she talks."

Connor frowned, but Smecker was nodding, as if relieved they'd finally caught up with him.

"Bullets were small, probably a twenty-two, and we know there were no weapons that size during the incident," Smecker said. "Once they're removed, Tinkerman in IT will tell us if there's anything recoverable on the hard drive."

"Hold on," Murphy said. "There was a gun that size. It was the hood's, but he never fired it. Only Scuderi did, but his aim wasn't quite so sharp as Connor's, thank the good Lord."

Smecker stared at him. "Each of the victims was shot with either a nine millimeter or a forty-five."

"But the silver pistol-it would have been picked up at the scene…" Murphy trailed off, wondering if the pulsing vein at Smecker's temple might actually burst. He glanced at Connor, who was chewing his lip. Clearly, the silver pistol had _not_ been picked up, and he remembered now that they'd never given Smecker his promised play-by-play. Fuck.

To his credit, Smecker's voice remained quite calm. "First, let me make a standing request that we not ever assume things have been recovered as evidence."

Murphy and Connor nodded.

Smecker forced a smile that was more of a grimace. "Now, why don't you start from the beginning?"

Connor did the honors, letting Murphy take over after Martha and Buffone wound up dead.

"I was having a bit of a scuffle with the hooded bastard and we both lost our weapons," Murphy explained. "That was when the gurney got tipped—and I saw the tattoo-and Scuderi must have gotten loose of the straps. The hood ended up with my nine, and Scuderi snagged the wee silver pistol-"

Smecker's face, which had grown wary as the tale spiraled on, lit up. "The_ hood_ took out Scuderi with _your gun_?"

"With my brother's help, aye. And it's not fucking funny, he's still got the damn thing."

"You're right, this morning was nothing," Smecker said. "_That_ was a cluster fuck." He lit another cigarette, sobering. "Yamir Kandukuri was shot with a nine millimeter."

A thought occurred to Murphy and he tried to keep his tone neutral. "Frankie as well?"

Connor gave Murphy a hard look. Smecker's was more thoughtful. "Also a nine," the agent admitted, "But at close range, when he was already on the ground, so the bullets were too deformed to run ballistics. No way to tell if it was the same weapon, and a nine's not exactly rare."

"Buffone's .45 was the only gun recovered at the plaza?" Connor asked.

Smecker nodded. "You've already told me the hood didn't stop for anything when he ran." He looked at each of them, the crease in his forehead deepening. "You know what this means."

Murphy's stomach tilted, as the thought he'd been pushing to the back of his brain burst into the open. He chanced a look at Connor, but his brother still wasn't making the connection.

"If the twenty-two's not buried with the briefcase, then one of the cops took it," Connor said. "Whoever shot the laptop with it."

Smecker looked meaningfully at Murphy. "Or?"

Connor followed Smecker's eyes, brows puzzling at Murphy. "Or what? There was no one else that could have taken it."

"Yes, there was, Con," Murphy said quietly.

There was a beat of silence, then Connor's eyes narrowed. "Wait just one fucking minute. There's _no way_ Leah would even think about-"

"That is one assumption we can't afford to make," Smecker said coolly. "And she's lied to me twice already."

"So make her confess, Paul," Connor said. "You cracked the likes of us-how hard can it be?"

"I didn't crack you, you turned yourselves in."

Connor tossed his cigarette butt. "Minor details."

"It's not going to work this time, Connor. Normally, in a situation as delicate and potentially explosive as this, I'd handle all contact with the witness myself. I'd insist on it. And no one would question me." He contemplated his cigarette for a long moment before continuing. "But that was before."

_Before the Saints. _

"The fact is, I'm hanging on to this case by the skin of my fucking teeth. I think the only reason I'm still on it is because they're counting on Beckman to keep me in line – or squeal if he thinks I'm not. And after this morning…"

The lines in Smecker's face were deep and hard, scars of the stress his balancing act had him under twenty-four hours a day. Murphy wondered how much longer he would last if this didn't end soon.

Smecker flicked his cigarette butt down and ground it under his heel. "He already thinks we're going soft on Leah. If I let him lean any harder on her, she might spill about everything, including the Saints. If I go easy on her and he takes it to Internal Affairs..."

"You could lose your job."

"Right along with Duffy, and Dolly, and Greenly. But more importantly, someone else will handle the Saints, someone else will handle Leah, and we all lose our chance to put right all this shit that's gone wrong."

"So what are you suggesting?" Connor asked. "It could just as easily be one of the cops that's dirty."

"It could, and I'll handle that possibility as quickly and as quietly as I can. If it is a dirty cop—or _cops_—she may not trust anyone on my team. I want you to talk to her."

Murphy had been about to chime in, but his thoughts evaporated as Smecker's words sunk in.

Connor let out a burst of laughter. "No offense, but I think that's about the worst idea you've ever had."

"Seriously, man," Murphy said. "Getting us involved directly – it's not a good idea."

"Hear me out," Smecker said, holding up his hands. "As far as we know, she's a good girl with a bad secret. And the thing about secrets is they're fucking hard to keep. They fester. They cause stress, insomnia, irritability-"

"Actually, not too different from your last girl, Con."

Smecker went on, "Stomach ulcers, heart attacks-like our dear friend Scuderi."

Connor kicked Murphy with his toe. "No wonder Annie's having such a hard time of it. And here I thought it was you."

"Sooner or later Leah's going to have to talk to someone," Smecker finished, then tilted his head. "Who's Annie?"

Connor smirked. "Annie is Leah's new partner…and Murphy's ex."

Smecker's brows rose almost to his hairline. "Oh, really?"

Murphy leveled him with a stare. He could practically hear the gears turning and he didn't like the look of the agent's smile.

"What I mean," Smecker said, "Is that this is even better, because you already have an asset in place who's close to her."

"Annie's hardly an asset, and I can tell you for a fact the two of them aren't close."

"Only a matter of time," Smecker said. "Riding around all day and all night with someone, you can't help but form a bond, and there's nothing to do in an ambulance but talk. Cops and paramedics do it all day long. Plus, she's a woman."

"Annie's not really the type for girl talk."

Smecker's sigh came out hard. "You're not a girl, how the fuck would you know?"

"If these are the options, I like the one where Connor asks Leah out better."

"I'm not convinced any of these are good options," Connor said. "What about Buffone, and trying to find out who hired him? I though Dolly was talking to the Man."

"Mancini admits Buffone worked for him in the past, but he 'denies any connection with the unfortunate events of last Friday.' We think he's full of shit, of course, but there's nothing to connect him."

"Maybe he needs a little persuading."

"No," Smecker said sharply. The tone could have been their mother's. Murphy and Connor stared at him.

Smecker shifted his weight. "What I mean to say is – Mancini's a sleeping giant you don't want to awaken. It would be…wise to tread carefully for now."

Murphy looked at Connor.

"Yakavatta was a giant, too," Connor said simply.

Smecker pressed his lips together. The chapel door creaked open behind them. Omar peeked around it, saw Murphy and rolled his eyes.

"What the heck happened to 'back pew, left hand side'?" Omar asked, stepping out onto the steps, letting the door bang closed behind him. "Look, I showed up, _inside_, so don't try to back out on our deal."

"Listen, Omar, this isn't really a good time."

Omar eyed the cigarette in between Murphy's fingers. "Looks like a pretty good time to me." He removed a backpack strap from one shoulder, and dug through the bag, finally surfacing with a smoke that looked giant and inappropriate in his small brown fingers.

He bit it and turned to Smecker, deadpan. "Got a light, old man?"

Stone-faced, Smecker bent to look Omar in the eye. Slowly, he reached and plucked the cigarette from the boy's mouth.

Omar's mouth dropped open. "Hey!"

Not breaking eye contact, Smecker crushed it in his fist, letting the tobacco sprinkle the concrete step. "Does your mother know you have these?"

Omar scowled at him, then at Murphy. "Who is this jerk?"

Smecker pointed to the playground in the distance. "Go. I catch you again, I'll have your momma on speed dial and your butt grounded until you're old enough for the draft."

"For the what?"

Murphy yanked his backpack strap on for him. "Take a hint, kid. Beat it."

"Fine!" Omar said, jerking away from his touch, bumping into Connor.

"Omar," Connor said, but the kid stalked away, not looking back.

"Quite the prodigy," Smecker said, his face creased with crow's feet and laugh lines Murphy hadn't known existed. "He's not carrying, is he?"

Connor frowned, watching Omar's slouching shoulders veer away from the playground and into the landscaped hedges. "Nah, he's a good kid. Just needs a bit of direction." He sucked in a breath, checking his watch. "What were we talking about?"

"Smecker was giving us a bit of direction…away from Mancini."

Smecker's amusement faded. "Look. You're not kids. But you're not cops, either, and I'm telling it to you straight up. Nothing good's going to come from you going after him alone. If we do this, it needs to be together."

"When," Murphy said. "_When_ we do this."

Smecker slipped on his sunglasses. "Talk to your girlfriend-"

"Ex."

"Talk to your ex, see what she's heard. You talk to Leah," Smecker said, turning to Connor. "I'll be in touch."

* * *

.

**A/N:** _Sorry for the delay on this one – please drop me a line and let me know you're still out there!_


	15. Smoke

**[Chapter 15: Smoke]**

**.**

"I don't know, Con," Murphy said, watching a trio of policemen commandeer the barstools at the far end of the diner counter. "Those lads stayed the night playing poker with us in a damn holding cell. I can't picture a one of them swiping evidence."

Officer Chaffey was trying politely, though unsuccessfully, to get Janice's attention, while his companions, detective Greenly and a red-headed officer—Mitchell, maybe- chuckled behind Chaffey's back.

Connor slouched in his corner of the booth. "We don't have to picture it, Murph. We just have to prove it." He dug in his pocket for a moment and came up empty-handed. "Fuck, I forgot."

"You're going to blaze up right here at the table?"

"I'm not, I just…"

"You just like to hold it. I know."

"Oh, shut it. But remind me to stop at the packie before we go on shift."

"Aye," Murphy said. "Can't have you borrowing mine all the damn day." He pushed the fries around on his plate. He'd hoped a better solution to the Leah dilemma would have come to him once he had some food in his stomach. But now that his stomach was full, the only thing coming to him was a vague feeling of indigestion. Connor was not going to like his plan.

Not that his brother had offered up anything better. He'd been strangely quiet ever since leaving the church.

"You know," Murphy said, "when those sirens were screaming, and I saw Leah standing over Scud's body I figured she was checking his pulse – never thought to look any closer. You didn't see anything funny, did you?"

"You mean, did I see her with the gun? Don't you think I'd have said something by now?"

"I'm sorry, man. It's just that with the dark and the rain, it'd be near impossible for me to be sure. You, on the other hand…"

"What?"

"Well, I had to tug mighty hard to drag your ass behind me. Seemed like you got a pretty good look."

"Is that what you think?" His expression was the same one he'd been casting on Murphy since birth – the one that wizened Connor beyond his years and reduced Murphy to amateur hour.

"I'm trying to see this from every angle, all right? What Smecker wants us to do—it's personal. And it could actually be pretty fucking dangerous. I want to be sure who we're dealing with."

Connor's eyes flicked up, then back to his plate. After a moment he sighed. "You can't be," he said, running a hand through his hair, "The truth is, I did get a good look-at her face. Not her hands. She could've been baggin' an AK, it'd have been completely lost on me."

Murphy flicked a fry at him. "Fuckin' A, Con. Next time I'll take the fucking blind shot. If I happen to gun you down, at least it'll save me all this drama."

"Speaking of your favorite pastime – have you got a plan yet for making nice with the little woman?"

"Con, I wasn't playin' about that. We're not running this through Annie. I have a plan, and it's much, much simpler." He waited until Connor gave him his full attention. "I knock you out, then I call 9-1-1. You let Leah give you the ice pack this time."

"You're serious."

"Hell, yes. What, you don't think you can take it?"

"I can't believe I have to say this about my own flesh and blood, but you are the biggest pussy I have ever had the shame of knowing. You'd rather knock me out than ask your ex-girlfriend for a favor!"

"Oh, please. It's got nothing to do with-"

"Yeah fucking right. This has 'unresolved issues' blazing all over it, and—holy Christ." Connor's mouth hung open and Murphy knew he wouldn't like what came out. "You haven't told her about me holding her messages, have you?"

Murphy pressed his lips together. This wasn't a conversation he intended to have right now. Or ever.

Connor spread both hands on the table. "For the love of Mary, why not? Let the truth set you fucking free, man! Don't worry yourself over me – Annie can hardly hate me more than she already does."

"That's your problem, Con. You always underestimate her."

"I don't get it. You're the one who keeps insisting it's over—so what's the fucking problem?"

Christ, was this really necessary? A small, but infinitely hopeful part of him had planned to take it all to the grave.

The waitress appeared at the table, but Connor waved her away. Slowly, he crossed his arms, settled in to wait for however long it took.

Murphy took a long drink of his Coke. Connor watched him, rolling his rosary beads slowly back and forth between his fingers.

"If I tell you," Murphy said, "you stay out of it, got it? It's not your business. So don't even think of starting up with the meddling."

"Meddling? What are you, eighty years old?"

"I'm fucking serious, Con."

Connor crossed himself solemnly. "You've got my word. I mean it. You'll be free to continue fucking up your life however you so choose."

"Look," Murphy said, taking a breath. "The thing is…nothing was ever settled in California. It didn't happen like you think."

"Didn't happen?"

Murphy shrugged. Now that he was trying to say it out loud, the right words eluded him.

"You mean you didn't fly out there?" Connor demanded, his voice raising a decibel. "If you weren't in California, then where the fuck were you for eight fucking days?"

"Relax, that's not what I'm saying—keep it down for Christ's sake."

"Eight days," Connor spat, oblivious to the looks they were getting from the surrounding tables. "_Eight days_ Roc and I looked for you. Friends, church, even goddamn shelters. I almost filed a fucking missing persons report! Finally Doc tells me he loaned you some cash for a plane ticket. Now you want to tell me-"

"Jesus Christ, I _did _fly out there! I just never actually…talked to her while I was there."

"You said you found her."

"I did, but things were-"

Connor threw his hands in the air. "Wait, let me guess – complicated."

"It doesn't matter!" Murphy hissed. "For fuck's sake, this is exactly why I never told you in the first place."

Connor shook his head. "She runs off," he said finally. "You hunt her down. You _find_ her. But you never talk to her."

"I don't expect you to understand."

"Good. Because I sure as fuck don't." He crossed his arms again, clearly waiting for a better explanation, then grimaced as another thought occurred to him. "Shit. She left you all those messages…and you blew her off."

"No, my asshole brother never passed the messages on."

Connor gave a conceding, one-shoulder shrug. "But she _thinks_ you blew her off. You're going to have to fix that."

"I don't have to do a damn thing—and neither do you. You gave me your word, Con. She doesn't need to know I went out there. You keep your fucking jaw shut."

"While you punch me in it? This is your big brilliant chicken-shit plan?"

"I won't hit you that hard. You can fake the unconscious part."

"Leah's a professional. You don't think she can tell if someone's conscious or not?"

"Fine, so I _will_ knock you out. Would it be so bad, having that woman's hands all over you? She'd probably have to take your shirt off."

"I'd be _unconscious_!"

"I promise I'll tell you all about it."

"Not happening."

When the bell on the diner door chimed, Murphy looked up, blinking once as his eyes fell on the very subject of their discussion. Leah Solomon scanned the rows of booths and tables, breaking into a smile when she saw him.

"Mysterious ways, brother. Look sharp."

Connor threw a very un-Charlie Bronson-like glance over his shoulder. "What the fuck?" he hissed. "Weren't you going to knock me out first?"

Leah walked up the aisle towards them, moving graciously to the side as she passed a group exiting a booth, but not slowing down. Annie trailed behind her sullenly. The women appeared to be seeking them out, though he couldn't begin to guess the reason. Clearly it wasn't Annie's idea.

Leah's smile was brighter than ever but as she approached there was something unnerving in her eyes.

Reaching their table, she came to an abrupt halt, rocking back on her heels. "Hi guys! Enjoying your dinner?"

"We are," Connor said, kicking Murphy under the table. "Care to join us?"

"Gosh, thanks. Don't mind if we do."

Before Murphy knew it, he was sliding over to give her room. She scooted in next to him.

Annie remained standing, her eyes darting to the exit. Leah looked at her imploringly until Annie sighed and took the space Connor made for her on the bench.

"How's your head?" Leah asked Murphy.

"Grand. Holding off the bald spot for another year or two."

Annie rolled her eyes.

"Your eye looks much better," Leah said to Connor, which was of course a lie. It looked awful and they all knew it.

Connor took a drink of his soda. Annie checked her watch.

Leah took a fry from Murphy's plate. "Sister Margaret is a real sweetheart, isn't she?" she began conversationally. "We just had a call over at St. Augustine's—no blood bath this time," she added. "I was so touched by the way those sisters care for the children."

"Children?" Connor said.

"Yes—would you believe they found a little boy outside in the bushes, sick as a dog with nicotine poisoning?"

Connor's eyes met Murphy's and after too long a pause, he managed, "You don't say."

Murphy's indigestion returned.

There was no trace of a smile left on Leah's face. "You two don't happen to know where Omar Rivera got his cigarettes, do you?"

Neither man spoke. Truthfully, the kid's cigarettes were his own, but if he'd ratted them out, there didn't seem to be any option of getting off on a technicality.

"It's a shame," Connor said, "but I'm afraid we don't know what you're talking about, darlin'."

"Leah," Annie said hesitantly. "I think there's been a misunderstanding. Just because they go to the same church, doesn't mean…"

Annie trailed off as Leah reached into her pocket and pulled out a silver lighter-suspiciously similar to the one Connor no longer carried in his own pocket-and set it between them on the table.

"Omar had your lighter," Leah said. "Are you going to tell me he stole it from you?"

Connor gave the lighter a cursory glance. "What makes you think that's mine?"

"I saw it at the church the other night."

"The lad tell you he got it from me?"

Leah held his brother's stare long enough that Murphy grew certain that their young friend was more loyal than they'd given him credit for. If Omar had given them up, Leah would certainly have made it known.

Connor leaned back, casually resting an arm along the top of the bench. Annie gave him a sideways glance and leaned forward on her elbows.

"That there's your basic stainless steel Zippo," Connor said. "Ten bucks from any liquor store. Must be a couple hundred thousand in Boston alone."

Leah picked up the lighter with two fingers.

"This particular Zippo has a long, T-shaped scratch along the side," she said, "and two small dents in the bottom corner. Exactly like the one I picked up for you on the church steps Monday night."

"Hmm," Connor said after a beat, "That's…specific."

"I have a different word for it," Murphy said.

"Too bad it proves nothing," Connor said, reaching for the lighter, but Leah snapped it back into her fist.

"It proves you were smoking with a ten-year-old boy, you lying piece of shit!"

The teenager bussing the next booth dropped a plate that shattered on the tile floor. The couple across the aisle stopped eating entirely.

"Leah," Annie said heatedly. "I told you—Connor and Murphy are…unconventional, but they're not reckless. Even they wouldn't smoke with a-"

"The kid's smokes were his own," Connor said, and Annie's mouth snapped shut so quickly Murphy could hear her teeth click together.

"Since you care so much," Connor said to Leah, "I'll assure you that I did not _give_ Omar any cigarettes." Leah shifted her glare to Murphy. "And neither did my brother, for Christ's sakes!"

"Then where did Omar get these?" Leah asked, producing an empty pack of Virginia Slims.

"Do you really think I smoke Virginia Slims?" Connor took a drink, raising a brow at her over the top of his glass. "Really?"

"My God, Connor," Annie said, "That's hardly the point." Her eyes fell on Murphy, and the disgust was palpable.

"Look," Murphy said, "the boy had the smokes already. Probably fecked them from his Ma or some such. He was going to smoke the fuckin' things anyway, whether we were there or not."

Leah still held the lighter in her fist, and her knuckles began to turn white. "So next time, when he shows up with his own smack, you'll just provide the needle. You know, since he was going to shoot up anyway."

"Jesus, keep your friggin' alans on," Connor said, setting his glass down forcefully but on the end of a fork so that it tipped, spilling Coke and ice across the table.

"What? What did you just say to me?" Leah demanded.

"Christ," Murphy swore, dodging the soda as it poured over the edge.

Annie grabbed for napkins. "Everybody just calm down."

But Connor's eyes were flashing. "I see what you mean about her," he said to Annie.

Leah looked at Annie, whose face was quickly turning crimson, and Murphy took the dive. "It was for his own good," he said. "For Omar's."

That was enough to shut everyone up, and Connor took it from there. "Despite what you obviously think—we _don't_ think smokin's a thing ten-year-olds ought to be playing at, so we were doing the best we could think of to stop him."

Leah looked doubtful. "That would be giving him your lighter so he could smoke an entire pack?"

"Not exactly," Connor said, watching Annie stuff the used napkins into his glass, "We told him a real man can smoke a whole cig in three drags."

Annie's eyes closed. "I can't believe I just defended you."

"We had to run, so we didn't get to see when he stopped," Connor admitted. "I never expected him to get through the entire pack. He's quite a kid."

"Well, he's more than made you proud," Leah said. "Turned a rather Irish shade of green and threw up every bite of food he ingested today. Colorful stuff. And he'll spend the rest of tonight nauseated, light-headed, with dry-mouth, a sore throat and blisters on both thumbs. Hope you're pleased with your work."

"He'll be all right in the morn," Connor said. "More importantly, he'll feel like hell anytime he _thinks_ about smoking for at least the next couple of years."

"Is that a fact?"

"It is. It's also a fact I've told nothing but the truth to you since you've set your little ass down at my table, so I'll thank you to take back that 'lying piece of shit' bit."

"Take it _back_? I don't know who you think you are, but-"

"I know exactly who I am, darlin'. And you're mighty righteous to come accusing when you don't know the first thing about me."

"Well, I know your name. And I know enough to tell those cops over there that Connor and Murphy MacManus—" Her hand touched her open lips. "Holy crap. You're Connor and Murphy MacManus."

Murphy shared a look with Connor, suppressing a rush of panic. What exactly could she know? That they were the Saints? That they were the ones who'd saved her in the rain? No, of course not. It was their names that clued her in, and the only secret connected to their names was not really a secret at all.

_Saint Patrick's Day._

For a long moment, no one spoke. Leah's cold gaze fell on the policemen across the diner. "You have a lot of fans in the department," she said. It wasn't a compliment.

"What does that mean?" Annie asked. No one answered. "What does she mean you have a lot of fans?"

Murphy kept his eyes on Connor's so that he wouldn't have to meet Annie's. She was quite possibly the only person in the entire city who hadn't heard about St. Patrick's Day. She'd find out eventually, it was inevitable. But not like this.

Leah seemed to sense his discomfort. Slowly, curiously, her eyes moved from Murphy to Annie and back.

"But perhaps not everyone is a fan," she observed, and the threat was crystal clear. "When Detective Duffy called your brother Mr. MacManus the other night, for some reason I never put it together, why your name sounded so familiar, and then it hit me-"

"What the hell is she talking about?" Annie asked. "How do all these detectives know you? First Beckman, and now-"

"Oh, Beckman, too," Leah muttered. "Wonderful."

"Look," Murphy said, "We won't smoke in front of the kid anymore, all right? Omar comes to join us, we'll walk the other way. No more endangering him with our fucking good intentions."

"Murph-" Connor began, but Murphy cut him off.

"All right then, Leah? Good enough for you?" _Good enough for you to keep your fucking mouth shut?_

"No," Leah told him flatly, "I'm sorry, but it's not good enough. For somebody else, maybe—but guys like you...I don't think you need to be hanging out with Omar any more—at all."

Annie's eyes bored into him, but it was Leah he couldn't look away from. He could hardly believe it, but she was dead serious: they were to stay clear of Omar, or Annie would hear every gory detail of one of the worst moments in Murphy's life. Inside he was falling, letting loose a shred of hope he hadn't realized he'd been holding on to.

"Forget it," Connor told Leah. "Omar's our friend, and you aren't his goddamn mother. And you sure as hell aren't mine. You can take you little marching orders and-"

He stopped, jaw hardening as Murphy's foot crushed his. "_Bí cúramach, a dheartháir_," Murphy warned, though it killed him to say it. "_Tá gá aige di fós. Tá gá againnse di_."

Connor wrenched his foot free, forcing a smile. He blew out a sigh and ran a hand through his hair.

"Excuse me?" Leah said. "What was that?"

"Come on," Annie said to her, rising from her seat in disgust, "There's no point talking to him once he starts up with the Gaelic."

Leah stood.

"Will I be having my lighter back, then?" Connor asked with exaggerated sweetness.

"Will you be staying away from Omar?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Then I'm afraid this belongs to me now. Let's go, Annie," she said, eyes on Murphy as she turned to go. "We have a lot to talk about."

.

* * *

.

.

A/N: If anyone's wondering, Murphy's warning was, "_Be careful, brother. Smecker still needs her. We need her._"


	16. Good Word

**[Chapter 16: Good Word]**

.

* * *

.

The bell on the diner door jangled with the dual forces of autumn wind and self-righteous indignation.

"Nice one, Con," Murphy said when the customers across the aisle finally returned their attention to their food. "Real smooth. I'll call Smecker and let him know Leah's primed for a full confession."

"Bite me," Connor said, taking a drink of his coffee. "You're lucky I didn't say what I was really thinking."

"Lucky's about the last thing I'm feeling right now, asshole. She thinks you're a right bastard, and a dangerous one at that." Murphy grimaced. "Now we've no choice but to go through Annie, and you know how likely she is to let us in the door."

Connor ran a hand through his hair, watching the departing ambulance pass by the window. "So we don't go knocking. We're supposed to be seeing Jake in any case. Can't be helped if she's there as well." It was impressive how quickly he'd forgotten Murphy's need to grovel was his own fault.

"There is no more _we_. I'll handle it this time."

"You? Dance through the mine field on your own?" Connor tried to hold back a laugh.

Murphy tried to hold back the urge to deck him. "I'll _handle_ it. Just stay out of my way."

Connor slid out of the booth. "I don't think so, little brother. This, I got to see."

Murphy smiled, because that was the only piece of a plan he did have: that Connor would see nothing. He had no clue what to do about Annie. But somehow, he wasn't that concerned so long as Connor was miles away.

* * *

At 8:30 the next morning, as he pulled up to One-Eyed-Jake's, his concern had grown considerably.

It hadn't taken a lot of coaxing last night to get Connor to finish off the case of Guinness. In all likelihood Murphy would be home before Connor even woke up. And if not—well, Murphy had the car, didn't he?

He cut the ignition and found himself staring through the bubbling purple-tinted rear window of the late-eighties hatchback parked in front of him. It was almost as shitty as the LTD. Zeke's probably.

Wait, Zeke had said his car was in the shop.

There was something hanging from the hatchback's rearview mirror. Dice? No. A miniature pair of flip-flops.

Annie's car.

Murphy groaned. What was he going to say to her? _Sorry about the smoking thing, and the Rocco thing, oh and the California thing, mind if I grill you about your boss?_

Murphy leaned forward until his head tapped the steering wheel.

The worst part was that it could have been so easy. All he would have had to do was tell Annie that Connor had a thing for Leah, and could she put in a good word? They could've met for drinks somewhere, let things happen naturally. He'd never admit it to his brother, but Connor was even better than Murphy was at exploiting the Irish 'charm.'

But thanks to Connor's little performance yesterday, there wasn't a chance in hell it would work now. Annie had seen it herself, the animosity between them. She might be many things, but naïve was not on the list.

He shouldn't have given Connor that last beer. He should have saved it for breakfast.

A light flickered on in the lobby. Annie, her hair twisted up with a pencil, her profile lit from below, leaned over the light box Jake used for tracing. She was dressed in a black hoodie and jeans.

Zeke's spot at the counter was empty. He probably wouldn't arrive for another hour. Jake would be in his office, although it was a bit early for him to be working, too. Damn, Annie might even be in there alone.

Juggling the keys between his hands, Murphy rethought the merits of his plan. He didn't really have to go in right now. He could stall for an hour at Dunkie's.

_But this is what you wanted_, he told himself, _to talk to her alone_.

_So get your ass in there and get it over with!_

Then Annie's face was at the window, looking out. Looking at him. He smiled automatically, and she pointed to the closed sign.

Well, at least she wasn't calling the cops.

He jogged to the door. "Can I come in?" he asked through the glass.

She scowled, glanced at the clock on the wall. "What do you want?"

_To talk to you. To explain about yesterday. And about everything else._

"I…I need to talk to Jake." He was such a pussy! Thank God Connor wasn't here.

"About designing your imaginary cousin's memorial?"

"Yes. No. Fuck it, just let me talk to Jake."

"He isn't here."

He put his fists in his pockets so he wouldn't pound on the glass. "Come on, Ann, be a doll. Please?"

A woman walking her dog veered around him on the sidewalk, raising an eyebrow as she passed.

Murphy cleared his throat.

It was risky, and an easy trick to catch, but with Annie it had rarely failed him. "I need me a tattoo design," he said quietly, letting his native accent deepen. "Your uncle's the best artist I know, besides yourself. T'is not a conspiracy."

With a great sigh, she rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "That's a lie," she said, finally turning the lock. "He's a hundred times better than me."

Saying a prayer of thanks to God and Mother Ireland he slipped inside before she could change her mind.

Annie re-locked the door behind him, and he wandered over to what had been Frankie's workstation, where in the two days since he'd last been there a makeshift shrine had grown. Photographs and notes had been taped to the mirror. The stained caps and empty ink bottles that had so irked Jake had been cleared off and replaced by flowers and candles and a incense burner decorated with hand-painted psychedelic designs and five-pointed leaves.

"I know, who would have thought Frankie had so many friends, right?" Annie said, picking up a note that had fallen. "Tell you the truth, most of them don't strike me as all that torn up. They come by in groups, like it's a social gathering, like we're some kind of freak tourist attraction. The funeral on Saturday should be interesting. Are you coming?"

Murphy nodded. "Been meaning to make a trip down there anyway." Frankie's body was to be entombed at St. Michael's Cemetery, possibly in the same mausoleum he and Connor had been meaning to visit ever since their return to Boston.

Annie replaced the note on the make-shift shrine. "Yeah, me too." Surprised, Murphy checked her expression to see if she was being sarcastic—he'd assumed she'd paid Roc a visit the moment she'd stepped off the plane. Her eyes were on the shrine, not on him, but they focused on something distant, something he couldn't see.

She stepped back from the shrine and their arms bumped. She moved away. "Jake should be here by nine."

He glanced at the clock on the wall. That gave him twenty minutes. "Actually, Ann…there's something else I wanted to talk about…with you."

She turned fully to face him. "If this is about Rocco-"

"It's not." The words shot out immediately, like a triggered alarm.

"Okay, jeez. Sorry, I just thought, after the other day, you might want to-"

"I don't."

She regarded him for a long moment, then looking down at her hands, asked, "Is it me, or the subject?

_Either. Both. Take your pick._

"Why are you forcing this?" he asked quietly.

"Why are you avoiding it?"

Murphy sighed, running a hand through his hair, fighting the urge to pull it out. "I've got to say, Ann. Three years and you haven't fucking changed."

"Yeah, well. Likewise." She shoved both hands in her sweatshirt pocket. "Fine. Since we know what you're _not_ here to talk about it, I guess this is about yesterday—how you did something incredibly stupid, and you made _me_ look stupid, but…I get it, all right? In your own insane, screwed-up way, you were doing the right thing."

"We were, aye." He sucked in a breath through his nose. "I'm sorry you had to get involved. It was kind of you, giving us the benefit of the doubt."

"Yeah, that's a habit I plan to break," she muttered. "Look, I don't care how you've gotten away with it in the past—next time do it in someone else's response area. I had to listen to Leah rant about it for the whole rest of the shift."

What was that supposed to mean, that he'd gotten away with it? It didn't feel safe to ask. "What'd she say?"

"She thinks you're both crazy. Probably thinks I'm crazy, for ever dating you."

_Dating._ As if that was all it had been. "What do you think?" he asked.

Annie adjusted the pencil in her hair and moved back to the light box. "Well, you know what they say about Leah. She's never wrong."

"Is that what they say?" Murphy asked, following her, trying to catch a glimpse of the design she'd been tracing, but she tucked it quickly into a folder. "What else do you know about her?"

She gave him a sideways look. "I know enough to say that you can forget about what you're here for. It's not going to happen."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Oh, come on, Murphy. These questions about Leah…and yesterday the way Connor—well, you saw him. You want me to fix them up."

Murphy choked on a laugh. How the hell had that gotten back on the table! "What makes you think that?" he asked. "Could be I'm after something else." And he knew it was a mistake as soon as he said it.

Her gaze was level, all traces of amusement gone. "Are you?" she asked.

He shrugged out of his pea coat, avoiding her eyes like the pussy he was. "Supposing Connor _was_ interested-"

"That's what I thought. You can forget it, Murphy. She's high-strung enough as it is. No offense, but I'm not dumb enough to sic a MacManus on her."

"You'd be a genius. Bit o' stress relief may be exactly what she needs."

"Ha! I hardly think you know what that woman needs."

"Then tell me about her. You must know her a bit by now."

For a moment, he was afraid he'd gone too far, pushed too quickly. But after a long pause, she shut off the light box and sighed again. "I don't know a damn thing. I like _her_ I suppose. But _working_ with her is…my dad would say it's good for me. Like exercise. Like really grueling, painful exercise with a marathon-running supermodel personal trainer."

"Who also decides whether you get to keep your job."

"Gosh, Murph. You always know just how to cheer me up."

"I don't get it, Ann. If you hate it so much, why are you doing it? It's a far cry from brushes and oils and canvas."

She blew out a sigh. "Why am I even telling you this stuff?"

"I'm commiserating, Jesus! How's this-" he asked, deepening his accent until it was a shade shy of Disney leprechaun. "Keep your chin up, my darlin' one, and you'll be sure to spy that bonny rainbow."

Annie groaned, but he caught the hint of a smile. "Okay, all right. I guess she's not that bad if she can rant about Connor for hours."

"Hours?" He was reminded of Leah's threat in the diner yesterday, and a little cold spot formed in the pit of his stomach. "Was Connor the only thing she was…that you talked about?"

Annie looked down, and he could see her lips press together and just like that the cold spot turned to ice.

She knew. She _knew_. What the hell had happened to the tight-lipped Leah they were trying so hard to protect?

"Look, Murphy," Annie said, fiddling with the folder in her hands. "Leah didn't tell me anything. In fact, she told me I should ask you myself."

His stomach twisted. No wonder she was so eager to broach every sore subject. "But?"

"But I knew you would never tell me! How you know all these cops, and even if you don't, they all seem to know _you_. That detective at the church, and then Josh and Mike Chaffey at the shop, and even at the Yolk yesterday! Do you know what it feels like to be the last to know _everything_, when I'm…when I'm…."

He waited, wondering how exactly she would define herself, hating that her frustrations had a ring of truth.

She wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on the chipped tile at her feet. "I went online," she continued quietly. "I read about what happened on Saint Patrick's Day. About…what you and Connor did."

_What you and Connor did. _The words echoed inside him, stabbing into his heart again and again and again.

"And?" he said, his voice coming out harder than he'd intended.

_Out with it, Ann. Get it over with and put us both out of our misery._

"And nothing. I'm sorry that happened to you."

He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but this wasn't it. He waited for the punch line.

"And I'm glad you're okay," she added. Her eyes lifted finally, green and clear.

"That's debatable," he said, taking a step back. "But…thanks."

Neither of them seemed to know what to say after that, and eventually Annie cleared her throat. "Saint Patty's was only a couple days before those serial killers started, but they called you guys the same thing, the 'Saints of South Boston.' Kinda strange. Did anybody try to connect you to them?

Murphy pretended to consider. "Not really, no. Most people know the media's not too creative."

The lie seemed to satisfy her, and she leaned against the counter. "Did Connor really jump off a five story building?"

Murphy struggled to keep up. Had he imagined it all, the condemnation, the judgment? "Hard to believe, I know," he said.

"Not really. Not when it's for you." She smiled quickly, but he'd heard the bitterness in her tone. "So, a toilet, huh? Interesting weapon of choice."

Murphy shrugged, wondering if he'd ever get used to hearing the story out loud. "That's Connor for you."

"Yep," she agreed. "He leaps tall buildings in a single bound, but sends a messenger to handle his love life."

"Whoa. I'm no messenger." _Per se_. Technically, the choice to come here was his own.

"Call it whatever you want, Murphy. Bizarre heroics aside, I think you know I don't have a burning urge to go singing your brother's praises."

"I wouldn't ask you to. Just help me give him a chance to do it on his own."

She gave a tired sigh. "Why should I? What could possibly be in it for me?"

"Name your price, darlin'. Tell me what you need."

For some reason, her cheeks grew pink. "Well, we're a man short now."

He followed her eyes to Frankie's workstation, trying to figure what she was getting at. It wasn't like he knew any out-of-work tattoo artists Jake could hire.

She cleared her throat. "And Jake needs a new countertop."

Did she know about that too? Murphy's heart skipped ridiculously. Of all the secrets to worry about!

But then she continued, "And rent's going up at the end of this month."

Suddenly, his own meager expenses seemed frivolous. "Annie, you know I'd help if there was any way I could but-"

"We're bleeding out, Murphy. Not just since Frankie died, though that really hasn't helped. This place looks busier than ever, but none of the traffic's paying customers. Jake's been canceling more appointments than he's making. He needs new business."

"You want me to spread the word?"

"You've got more connections in Southie than people who've lived here their whole lives. You know everybody."

He felt a smile coming on at how difficult it seemed to be for her to go on like this.

She threw up her hands. "Everybody likes you, all right? God knows why, but they'll listen if you put in a good word."

"Right then. All I have to do is send some fresh skin your way, and you'll…?"

She scowled, as if it truly pained her to tell him something he wanted to hear. "There's a thing tomorrow night. A lot of people will be there, so if you guys show, it won't even seem like we set it up. Which, knowing Leah, is probably safer."

"What is it?"

"A retirement party, for Leah's old partner John. Not like an official one, just a bunch of the department people taking him out for dinner. You won't know most of them—actually, who knows? Maybe you will. Considering they're a big chunk of your fan base."

"Department people," he repeated, casually as he could. "That include cops?"

"Maybe. Is that a problem?" Her voice was just as casual. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Sneaky little bitch! She knew cops would be coming and hadn't planned to say a word!

"Not at all. They're fans, right? Except maybe that Josh of yours."

Her lips curved. "_My_ Josh?"

He gave her a look that made words unnecessary, though he could feel his neck get hot. "We're talking about Connor and Leah, remember? At least for the two of _them_, a room full of your 'department people' t'isn't exactly good atmosphere for a date."

Nor was it good atmosphere for a couple of fugitives from the law. Running into the old team over the last few days was one thing. Voluntarily parking himself in a room full of uniformed unknowns would be unforgivably arrogant.

Annie brushed a strand of hair out of her face. "You were the one who came crying to me, Murphy. Take it or leave it."

He gritted his teeth because she was right and it was obvious. "Do I know the place at least?"

"You ought to. Morton's is only a couple blocks up from your home away from home. Dinner's at seven."

He didn't know if she was referring to his church or his pub, but it gave him an idea. He and Connor could rarely afford a Morton's seafood dinner, but they had splurged once or twice over the years and he knew for a fact that Morton's didn't have a full bar.

"Be done about nine," he guessed. "Pretty early to turn in for a Friday night. McGinty's will be just warming up about then."

"An after-party at Doc's?" Her brow furrowed with a hesitation he didn't quite understand. For all the months they'd been together, she'd been as much at home there as he was. Or had been. If there was any cause for hesitation here, it was his own imminent homecoming, not hers.

"Come on, Annie. I bet you Doc will give free draft beer to you and your medic friends. There's a reason they call him Doc, you know."

She chewed her lip.

"Do it for Jake. I'll get him more skin than he can ink in a month."

"You promise?"

"My hand to God."

"Guess that's one guarantee I can count on," she sighed. "Okay, fine. It's a deal. I'll see you tomorrow at nine."


	17. Doc's, PART 1

_A/N: Thanks to GoddessLaughs, for her usual brilliance, and to all you loyal readers for your patience through my holiday hiatus. May 2011 be your best year yet!_

**[Chapter 17: Doc's]**

**~ PART 1 ~**

He hadn't expected the plan to go over well with his brother, but after Murphy dropped the news over hamburgers, Connor simply chewed in silence for a minute, then said,

"Should be interesting."

And it would be interesting, Murphy thought. They'd never set foot in McGinty's before with any agenda other than to drink and have a good time. Now they were officially on a mission, with more than just their own lives hanging in the balance. They had to know what Leah was hiding, and why. If she was covering for a cop, and it seemed likely now that she was, would the officer make an appearance at Doc's? The idea was unsettling.

God help them if Beckman showed up. Scuderi's shot-up laptop hadn't been discovered until after her interview with the detectives, and despite Smecker's initial efforts, Beckman had probably found out about it by now. Murphy doubted Beckman would be able to let an evening with Leah pass without cornering her about it.

And before any of that drama started, there were the small matters of the homecomings- first theirs, then Annie's. Murphy climbed out of the LTD, allowing himself one more cigarette before heading into the pub.

Connor paused to wait for him, shaking his head.

"What?" Murphy said.

"Are you feelin' all right?"

Murphy raised an eyebrow at him.

Connor gestured to the cigarette. "You sucked down three on the way over."

"So?"

"It's a five-minute drive."

"You want to count my calories, too? I had a burger and a beer for lunch."

"It's going to be fine, Murph. You've been shit-faced with these lads a hundred times."

"Aye, and so have you." He couldn't help but laugh. "Relax, Con. I'm not worried about them."

"Yeah," Connor said, watching him exhale a final puff. "I know."

Connor opened the door, releasing an outpouring of laughter and cursing; it was only eight, still early for a Friday night, but the regulars were already going strong. Murphy breathed in the tang of alcohol and old smoke, acutely aware of how long it had been since he'd had a pint of Guinness.

Shouts went up from the crowd at the bar, aimed at the footie game playing on Doc's small TV screen, and the distraction allowed them to enter virtually unnoticed. A burly man- Bruce, maybe?- bellowed over two of his jersey-wearing friends at the far end. Paulette, her red hair in braids under a black handkerchief, reached between them to refill an empty pretzel bowl, ordering them to keep it down. McGerkin and a handful of men from the plant filled many of the stools at the bar. Doc himself was behind the bar, drying a Pilsner glass with a hand towel.

Towards the back of the room, Jerry Doyle and a few of the other young dock workers were making friends with the margarita-drinking tourists at the next table.

Connor saw them too and gave Murphy a half-smile. Aye, six months ago, that would have been them.

Murphy caught his reflection in the mirror, and suddenly felt old, years older than the last time he'd been here.

His eyes switched focus, to the logo imprinted on the mirror: Harp Lager. The mirror was new. The old one, with the Guinness logo, had been demolished with 200 pounds of angry Russian.

Ignoring the eyes that had begun to glance in his direction, he looked over at the wine rack, from which he'd pulled those two skull-shattering bottles. The rack was full now, or at least more full than empty. Those bottles had been replaced as well, as if that day had never happened.

Connor elbowed Murphy. "Let's be on with it, then."

Doc looked up, and the glass fell to the floor with a crash. Paulette swore, reaching for the broom, and then she saw Murphy and swore again.

"Jesus H. Christ," Doc sputtered. "If it isn't the prodigal sons of the f-fucking horseman of the ap-ap-apocolypse."

All faces turned their way, and it was not Murphy's imagination: every conversation in the bar fell silent.

Heat flooded him, and he felt himself smile automatically as the heavy pause gave way to shouts of greeting. He followed Connor, who had not missed a step, toward two of the three empty stools at the center of the long bar.

"Been holding our seats I see, Doc," Connor said, then his smile faltered.

It was habit, pure unthinking tire-in-the-rut habit that had made Connor and him leave an open stool between them. Murphy kept his eyes straight ahead, but the space had a dark gravity to it, like a black hole. No one said a word. A beer commercial played on the TV in the background. Doc cleared his throat and gave each of them a hard look.

_Not tonight, Lord, please. Not now._

"Y-you know what I've been holding is your fucking b-b-bar tab," Doc said. The others laughed. He tossed the towel in Murphy's face. "Where the f-fuck have you been?"

"Same old shit," Murphy told him, hoping the relief wasn't blatant on his face. Paulette retrieved the towel, leaning across the bar to give them each a kiss on the cheek.

"That's it?" McGerkin said, coming over to clap him on the shoulder. "That's three months of a disappearing act?"

"What can I say? We lead boring lives."

"Yeah right," Bruce guffawed and the rest of the bar buzzed with the kind of tittering conversation that made it clear their absence had gone unnoticed by few, if any.

"You all shut your traps," Doc ordered, jabbing a finger into the air. "You wouldn't be sitting your drunken arses in this place tonight if it weren't for these two."

There was a general mumble of agreement, and McGerkin raised his glass, followed by the plant guys and then, one by one, every other soul in the place.

"To the MacManus boys!" McGerkin declared. "May they always land their punches."

"And their bullets fly true!" someone shouted.

Laughter erupted, and all Murphy could think was, _Jesus fucking Christ_. A dozen cops would be here within the hour, at his own invitation. What the fuck had he been thinking? He laughed along with the others, sweat forming at his temples as he realized his friends might be far more dangerous than his enemies.

* * *

Half an hour later, now fully updated on the gossip they'd missed at the plant, they escaped out front for a smoke.

Connor tapped out two cigarettes. "I hope you're up for this," he said, turning his back to the cold wind. "They're gonna be swapping stories like it's a family reunion once this place fills up and the whiskey starts flowin'."

"Shit. I'm gonna give Doc a heads-up."

Connor checked his watch. _Almost show time_. Biting on both cigarettes, he dug in both his jeans and jacket pockets for his lighter.

Beside him, a VW hatchback backed into a clearly-marked no-parking zone. Somehow, he wasn't all that surprised to see Annie behind the wheel.

The passenger door opened. Blonde hair and a red scarf billowed in the wind, and Connor was reminded where his lighter had gone.

Leah frowned when she saw him. "You again."

Footsteps and chatter approaching told him the rest of the caravan had arrived.

"MacManus!" Mike Chaffey called, flanked by Mitchell and Newman, and a half-dozen others in street clothes. "Should've known we'd run into you here."

"Usual suspects. We get that a lot. If you're here to break things up, you're a bit early."

The others laughed, and he smiled along with them, unable to help wondering which of them Leah was covering for. Or was it more than one? And was it out of loyalty—or fear? Leah gave him no indication; she was staring at his lips.

_Christ._ Connor quickly plucked the unlit cigarettes from his mouth.

She raised an eyebrow. "What are you, trolling for juvies?"

"I was, but it turns out they're all in bed by now. Any of you lads got a light?"

No one did. "Don't even bother asking," Leah warned when he looked back her way.

Connor smiled. "I wouldn't dream of it, love."

She and the others filed inside, but Annie hung back.

"Well. I brought her here," she said when the pub door closed. "The rest is up to you. Just a word of advice – don't treat her like your other girls."

Connor closed his eyes for a beat, gritting his teeth. "Meaning…"

"She's in a whole other league, Connor. Your usual shit's not going to fly with this one. So please, for both our sakes, try not to screw it up."

He gave her a look that he usually reserved for Murphy. "Is that all?"

"Yes, that's all."

Connor swallowed his first response and took a breath. "It's good of you to do this, Annie."

She pulled out her cell phone. "I'm not doing it for you."

"And I'd never accuse you of such a thing."

He twirled a cigarette in each hand, watching her. She must have scrolled through her entire contact list three times by now. Suddenly, the reality of her situation dawned on him. "Are you really so afraid to go in there?" he asked.

Annie scoffed, continuing to punch buttons on her phone. "I'm not afraid."

"Come off it, you're stallin' like you're about to face up to your momma or your priest. You worried you've been blacklisted, or some shite?"

"What?" She fumbled her phone. "Why would I be blacklisted?"

She should have been glaring at him, but her eyes never lifted. He felt a strange sensation in his chest – good God, was it _sympathy_? He started for the door before the feeling could take hold. "Beats the fuck out of me," he said.

"Wait." Her boot heels clicked behind him. "Have I? Been…you know."

He watched her for a long moment. In her date clothes – the tight jeans, the high-heeled boots, the black fitted shirt unbuttoned not too much, but just enough—she was going to wreak fucking havoc on Murphy. Again.

And just like that, the feeling was gone. "He told them it was his fault," he said finally, holding the door open. "Told them he was a fucking idiot and it was entirely his own fault."

Annie contemplated the toes of her boots for a moment before starting through the door.

"Thanks, Connor."

The bar noise was loud, so he leaned in close.

"Don't thank me. That's not what _I_ told them."

* * *

Leah and the cops gravitated to the bar, which Murphy was now behind, dumping a huge tub full of ice into the cooler. Paulette stood by, hands on hips as if to supervise, but Connor could see her supervision extended only as far as Murphy's flexed arms shaking out the ice. At least some things never changed around here.

Annie was making small talk with Mitchell, while watching Murphy with some interest.

Doc blustered on Murphy's other side, gesturing with the hand towel. "I told you to use the li-li-li- the fucking small bucket, damn it! Where the f-fuck am I going to put all the bottles?"

"Paulette, how do you put up with this shit?" Murphy said, flipping the last of the ice cubes out with a flourish, dripping icy water onto his shirt. "You know, you have to hire me before you can fire me, Doc."

Grumbling, Doc let Paulette take the hand towel from him, and he moved away to take drink orders from the cops.

Paulette wiped down the cooler. "Don't hold your breath. You were hard enough to get rid of the first time," she said with a wink.

Murphy gave her a wide smile. "That's not how I remember it." He set the tub on the bar, but Paulette shook her head, so he moved it to the floor, and she gave an exaggerated sigh. "Just give it to me before you trip Doc and put this place under for good."

"Oh, kiss my blarney, Paulette."

She twisted up the towel, frowning, as if giving his backside serious consideration.

Connor leaned over the bar. "Do it, Paulette! Maybe it'll bring you luck this time."

She gave Murphy a powerful swat with the towel. Their friends from the plant cheered and McGerkin stuffed some bills in her tip jar. "There," she said. "Don't I feel lucky already!"

Murphy rubbed his ass, wincing, and Leah caught Connor's eye. "Annie," she said, loud enough for him to hear, "I thought you said this was a nice place."

"Dive," Annie corrected, watching Murphy as he came around the bar to join them, two fresh pints in hand. "I said it was a nice little _dive_. Tourists think the authentic Irish clientele is part of the charm."

"Part of it?" Connor said, as Murphy nodded hello to Leah and gave Annie a quick kiss on the cheek. Annie smiled stiffly, saying nothing, and perhaps only as much as a brother would notice, Murphy's buoyancy evaporated a degree. "Murph, I'd say we're damn near all of it, wouldn't you?"

Murphy handed him a pint. _Remember, this is supposed to be a chance meeting_, his look said_._ "Even so, Con, I fear it won't be enough. They've hunted us all the way back to our lair. And I see they've brought back-up this time." He lifted his glass to Chaffey. "If you'll just let me finish my beer before you arrest me?"

"Arrest you?" Chaffey said. "Are we in for some more MacManus self-defense?" He took in the bar around him, as if to survey the likely damage. "Let me finish _my_ beer first."

"No one's getting arrested-probably," Leah said. "My old partner's retiring—and my new one seems to think this is the best place in Southie to get a beer. Personally, I think most of the boys just have a morbid curiosity about this place and its…recent history."

* * *

Saving Murphy from having to deflect that one, Annie's line-backer partner approached with the older man Murphy recognized as the unconscious medic from the plaza.

"You guys remember Ortie?" Annie asked.

Ortie gave an upward nod. "'Sup."

"And this is John, my old partner," Leah said. "John – Connor, and Murphy."

"Guest of honor, right?" Connor said, standing up to shake John's hand. "Congratulations on the retirement."

"Thanks," said John, giving Leah a parental look that made her roll her eyes. "Always a pleasure to meet more of Leah's friends. How'd you all meet?"

"Gosh, we just keep running into each other," Leah said. "We had a call to St. Augustine's the other day – turns out Connor and Murphy volunteer with some of the youth there."

John's eyebrows rose, impressed. "Really?"

"That's great, guys," Chaffey said, crunching a pretzel. "What do you do, exactly?"

Murphy took a drink so Connor would have to answer, but his brother had the same idea. They set their glasses down at the same time.

"Come on guys—don't be shy," Annie said.

"Yeah," Leah said, "Officer Chaffey wants to know _exactly_ what you've been doing."

"Leah, would you please just call me Mike?"

"Actually, Mike," Connor said, subtle as a steamroller, "We were going to ask you – how's the Hayes case going? You have any leads?"

"Nothing solid as far as suspects," Chaffey said, amid various boos and shouts about leaving work where it belonged. "But Beckman's got a theory-" He reached between Murphy and Connor to take the beer Paulette handed him. By the time Chaffey laid a five down on the worn bar, she'd already moved on to a different patron. "Thanks," he called. "Anyway, Beckman thinks—oh, hey there, Beckman."

Murphy closed his eyes for half a second before turning around. _Really, Lord? Really? _Beckman looked as sharp as ever in a black leather jacket over a crisp white shirt and tie, out of place amid the worn jeans and flannel shirts that defined McGinty's. Greenly was with him, grimacing a silent apology to Murphy when Beckman directed his neon smile toward the women.

"Evening, detectives," Murphy said. "I surely hope it's a quiet night for crime in the city, seeing as the whole of your precinct's getting langered in here."

"EMS, too," Annie said, "So you guys might want to be _real_ careful driving home."

"To the second string!" Ortie said, raising his glass, which at his height meant it could be seen from every corner of the room.

The echoed cheer resounded throughout the bar, and Murphy began to notice how many people were tuned into their conversation.

"And to the first string," Beckman added, raising his glass to John. "We're all on the same team, after all. Right Leah?"

Leah smiled tightly, but didn't raise a glass, and Murphy realized the women weren't yet drinking. Connor leaned in over the swarming bar to flag Doc.

Connor pointed to Annie. "Piss in a bottle?"

"With extra limes," she said.

"As I live and breathe!" Doc said, laying both hands on the bar, squinting at her through his thick glasses. "Is that you, Annie?" His eyes went to Murphy. Paulette stalked over, her mouth agape.

Murphy sucked in a breath. _Here we go._

"I'll be damned, girl," Doc said, "you're like a fucking rabbit in a hat the way you fall off the face of the earth—Fuck! Ass!"

The looks on the faces of the newcomers were priceless. Annie flushed, biting her lip on one side as Doc shifted narrowed eyes from Murphy to her and back again.

"Ho-ly shit." Paulette's brows rose but her heavily-shaded eyelids stayed half-mast. "You two back together, or what?"

"NO." They answered together.

In a rare display of mercy, Connor tried to shift attention to Leah. "What are you drinking?" he asked.

"Sam Adams, please," she said to Doc, reaching for her purse.

"I've got it," Connor told her.

"_I've_ got it," Beckman said, whipping out his wallet.

"Thanks, anyway," Leah said. She'd pulled her pocketbook out but Beckman's twenty was already laying on the bar. Damn, he was fast.

"I insist," he told her. "After all the help you've been this week, it's the least I can do."

Leah's face went red, and she took a step back. "Actually, I'm going to run to the ladies'," she said. "Excuse me."

Murphy caught Connor's eye as she melted into the crowd. Smecker was right. She was never going to let her guard down with Beckman around. They needed to ditch him, and fast. He had a feeling Leah's next run might be for the door.

Murphy climbed off his stool and motioned for Beckman to take his seat. "Take a load off."

Connor stood up as well. "Good to see you guys," he said to Greenly meaningfully. "I'm going see if I can't find us a table."

Chaffey looked confused. "But they're all full."

Murphy sipped his beer, watching as Connor wound his way to the back corner of the room. "Not for my brother, they're not."

What was he saying, Murphy wondered, to that cluster of margarita-sipping women at the corner table? How was it that in less than a minute, each one of them was smiling-even laughing with him, as they drained the salt-rimmed glasses, and began to shrug their jackets on? Chaffey's beer hovered half-way to his mouth as the line of women trailed past them toward the door, and Connor eased himself into an empty chair, impatiently beckoning Murphy over.

"Wow," John said.

"How did he do that?" Ortie asked.

Murphy plucked Leah's beer off the bar. "I could tell you, but then Connor would have to kill you."

"Shouldn't we wait for Leah?" Chaffey asked.

"Don't worry, Tom-Tom can find her way," Ortie said.

Murphy looked at Annie. Were they all on the same page here?

"_Go_," Annie said to him. "I'll get her."

Chaffey said he'd wait, as well. Murphy started through the crowd, trying to shake off the feeling that Chaffey's attention to the woman was a stretch more than professional.

Ortie brought over extra chairs. Murphy scooted his next to Connor so they both had their backs to the wall and a view of the crowded pub.

"What was that you called Leah just now?" Murphy asked Ortie. "Tom-Tom?"

"Tom-Tom," Connor repeated. "Isn't that like a drum or something?"

John and Ortie laughed. "No, Tom-Tom, the GPS system," Ortie said. "You know, like for your car?"

"Aye, of course," Connor said.

Yeah, right. Connor could barely work the television remote.

"It's John's nickname for her," Ortie explained. "Now that the Southie guys are getting to know her, it's kind of stuck."

John smiled, almost modestly. "Leah is…something of a phenomenon."

Murphy glanced at Connor. His brother's eyebrows rose. _Now we're getting somewhere!_

"The thing about her," Ortie said, pushing the empty margarita glasses to the center of the small table. "is she's like a walking, talking GPS. You want to know the best way to get through the Fen when the Yanks play the Sox? Or the best surface streets to take when the Pike's at a stand-still-"

"No, no, that's not-" John interrupted, frowning as he tried to explain. "Any Joe on the street could tell you that much. My Leah, she can give you street names, side streets, cross streets, alternate routes – and not just in the city-all the way up to Lynn and down to Quincy."

"Huh," Murphy said. They'd only just gotten here, so it seemed possible their talk was actually based more on reality than it was on beer. "Must come in handy on the ambulance. Over the years, I bet you guys have covered every inch of the city."

Ortie chuckled. "She's never even been to Quincy."

John held up a finger. "But she's seen the map."

"She's seen the map," Connor repeated. "Are you trying to tell me, if that girl took a gander at a map, say of Ireland—

"She could lead you home to your mama's door," said Ortie, his gaze shifting towards the bar. The women were making their way back to the table. Damn it-with Chaffey and Beckman trailing behind.

John was watching Connor, a knowing smile on his face. "Don't believe me, do you?"

Connor stretched both arms behind his head. "I don't know. You have to admit it sounds like a lot of Sam Adams talking."

"What's Sam saying now?" Annie asked. Ortie got up and gave her his chair, and before Murphy could blink, Chaffey had given his to Leah.

Five of them squeezed around the small square table, Connor next to Murphy, who was now next to Annie. John straddled the corner between the girls. Leah, though she'd scooted her chair back from the table a bit, was next to Connor. Chaffey and Ortie leaned against the wall, but Beckman remained standing behind Annie, swirling a highball glass of something pinkish and fizzy.

Where the hell were Duffy and Dolly when he needed them? Or Smecker, for that matter? Murphy scanned the mass of revelers for Greenly, and spotted him at the opposite end of the bar, laughing with a gathering of cops. Some help he was.

"Leah, your friends are non-believers," John said.

"Ooh, ouch," Annie said. "And you've been called every name in the book."

Connor smiled. "You would know."

"He means in Leah's superpowers," Ortie said.

Beckman hovered at the edge of Murphy's peripheral vision. "I think this calls for a demonstration," he said.

"Come on guys," Leah said, her smile stiff. "Not tonight." She gave Ortie a hard look, but he didn't seem to get the message.

"Come on, Tom-Tom," Ortie said. "It's John's last request."

"I'm _retiring_, not dying," John said, leaning over to bump shoulders with Leah. "Still, I could show you off one more time."

"Seriously," she told him. "Not now, okay?"

But Ortie and John wouldn't give up, and continued to chide her. And Beckman's drink continued to swirl.

Murphy leaned to whisper in Annie's ear. "How about you take the good detective for a walk."

"Who, Josh?" she whispered back. "Why?"

"'Cause he's a buzz kill, that's why."

He saw Annie's eyes flicker to Leah, and he suspected she understood more than she let on. "I'm enjoying my piss-in-a-bottle," she said. "Why don't you do it yourself?"

"Because he likes looking at your ass more than mine," Murphy said, letting his breath fall on the skin below her ear. "Come on, Ann, a deal's a deal."

Annie rubbed her neck, leaning back in her chair. "Yeah. Exactly," she said at normal volume. "I don't see you holding up your end."

Lord, how had he stayed with her for five whole months? He pretended to yawn, stretching his arms and accidentally-on-purpose bumping Beckman's drink. "Oops, sorry," he said. "What are you drinking there, Beckman? Shirley Temple? Guess you have to stay sober while you're on the job."

"I'm off duty tonight," Beckman said. "But somebody has to drive home." He took a very slight step forward, letting his hand rest on the back of Annie's chair, not enough so she'd feel it, but enough to let Murphy know what he meant.

"Off duty?" Murphy said, keeping his voice light. "So you've solved the Frankie Hayes murder, then? You know, losing him's been a fierce burden on his employer. I bet Jake will give you some free ink when you bring in the killer."

A pointy boot collided with Murphy's shin and he swallowed a groan. Annie shot daggers at him over her Corona.

"He'll get a lot more than that," Chaffey said, chuckling. "Hell, if Beckman could bring in the Saints, they'd probably give-"

"_Chaffey_." Beckman's voice was stone cold, and stopped every conversation at the table.

Annie set her beer down. "Did you just say _the Saints_?"

Chaffey's eyes were glued to the floor. "I'm sorry, Beckman, I just feel like—you know…we're among friends."

"Yeah, Beckman," Connor said. "No secrets here."

From the corner of his eye, Murphy saw that Beckman's drink had gone still. But after a moment—a long moment—it began to swirl again. "I'd like to say it's nothing personal," Beckman said, "but that's exactly the problem with vigilantism. It's always personal. And when a rumor gets started, or the media catch wind…"

"You're right," Annie said. "The last thing those psychopaths need is more free press."

There was a quiet rumble of movement around the table: Leah shifted in her chair. John scratched his chin. Ortie reached for the pretzels. Connor took a drink, his eyes meeting Murphy's over the top of his glass.

Beckman looked down and smiled-perhaps because he enjoyed making the people around him uncomfortable, or perhaps because the open buttons of Annie's shirt were angled in his favor. "It's my job to end the violence," he said. "Not to fuel revenge."

Annie's eyes locked with Murphy's. "Don't worry, Josh," she said. "Around here we light candles for our dead. And get tattooed."

Murphy took a slow breath, in and out through his nose. Heart racing, he raised his glass, locking eyes with her, hardly aware of his words until they were out of his mouth. "And we drink," he said. "Don't forget about that."

"How could I?" she asked, lifting her bottle high. "To…old friends."

"To old friends!" the others echoed: some cheerily, some with robust sincerity, none with any clue who David Della Rocco had been. Across the table, Connor raised his glass to mirror Murphy's. Annie drained what beer she had left.

Beckman's hand slid onto her shoulder. "I want you to know, Annie. I'm going to do everything in my power." His eyes fell on Leah, and he added, "No stone unturned."

Leah blinked, then pushed her beer away. "Excuse me," she said, rising a little unevenly, "I'm going to get some air."

Chaffey pushed himself off the wall, but Beckman snagged him, taking him aside for a conversation Murphy guessed wasn't going to be pleasant. A couple of clean-shaven faces Murphy didn't recognize came over to chat with John and Ortie, leaving Connor, Murphy and Annie virtually alone.

Connor rose, his eyes following Leah to the exit. "I'm going for a smoke."

* * *

_A/N: You guys know what to do! :)_


	18. Doc's, PART 2

**[Chapter 18: Doc's]**

**~ PART 2 ~**

"You're not going to tag along?" Annie asked Murphy.

Voices and laughter filled what little air space remained in the small pub; if he hadn't been looking in the general direction of her lips already, he wouldn't have known she'd spoken. Christ, he needed a cigarette.

He watched Connor follow Leah's path to the door, and took a drink.

"I'll sit this one out," he said, rubbing his shin. Her boot had caught him square on the bone, and through his jeans he could feel a lump beginning to form. Their eyes met briefly. There was no sympathy in her gaze. "Well, I did my part," he told her. "Now how about you go ask Captain America to buy you another beer?"

"Like hell you did your part. You promised to bring in paying customers, not give away services for _free_."

"So, is that a no?"

Annie pushed out of her chair and stalked off toward the bar.

He took the long way around to snag Greenly at the dartboard. Greenly finished the joke he was telling to raucous laughter, then grabbed his beer before letting Murphy pull him aside. He wagged his brows in question.

"Enjoying yourself?" Murphy asked.

"Sorry," Greenly said. "Been doing some _R & D_. Or just, _R_."

"Research?"

"You should hear some of these stories about Leah," Greenly said. "Blow your fuckin' mind."

"I heard about a record for DUIs, but-"

"YES," Greenly said, his breath thick with beer, "_Forty-seven_. I heard that from Beckman. And did you know her daddy's the head Cadillac surgeon at MGH?"

"You mean _cardiac_?"

"That's what I said. He's like a professor, teachin' all them Grey's Anatomy wannabes. Him and Leah had a falling out or some shit when she dropped out of med school and-"

"Sean—hold on, because I want to hear all of this—but I need your help with Beckman first. He's nosin' around like a stray dog. Can't you throw a stick for him to fetch?"

"He doesn't listen to me," Greenly sighed. "But let me make a call."

He dug out his phone and wandered away, too far for Murphy to overhear. Across the bar with a fresh Corona in hand, Annie had rejoined Beckman and Chaffey, until Chaffey excused himself, looking enormously relieved as he fled to the bar. Beckman said something to her, and she laughed, touching his arm. Murphy gripped his pint glass, now empty but for an inch of foam. What was Beckman saying to her? His next thought was less focused, but involved violence and dark places devoid of witnesses.

Within moments he was close enough to hear Beckman's cell phone ring.

The natural arrogance in Beckman's voice lasted only as long as the first _hello_. With a clipped 'yes, sir', he gave a gesture of apology to Annie and made a bee-line for the front door.

* * *

Connor followed Leah outside. It was probably best to wait until she stopped to breathe before he made his approach.

She was watching the cars drive past, rocking from heel to toe, a few feet from the curb, as if waiting for a ride to pick her up. A yellow cab was coming up quickly, and Connor made his move, wanting to distract her before she got an idea to hail it, but hesitating because truly, he might be the final push she needed. He stepped up along side her, she glanced his way, and the cab passed by. She sighed, the puff of white disappearing almost instantly in the cold wind.

"Got a light?" Connor asked.

"I did actually come out here for _fresh_ air."

"Well, don't worry, you're in the clear tonight. Some crazy chick stole my lighter."

"Gee. That's too bad."

His hands went to his pockets and closed around his pack of cigs.

He flipped it open. Five left. Sure would be nice to have that lighter back.

_Closed._ Pathetic. He didn't need a cigarette.

_Open_. It's just that his fingers felt empty without one.

_Closed_. So what? Now he needed a security blanket to talk to a woman?

_Open_. Not a woman—a witness, and possible suspect. And not a security blanket-an ice-breaker.

_Closed_. An ice-breaker that wasn't guaranteed to piss her off.

_Oh, well—desperate times, right?_

"How's our boy Omar this morning?"

Leah continued watching the street. "You assume I checked up on him?"

"You seem the type."

"I'm going to go ahead and assume that's a compliment."

"Suit yourself."

She was quiet for a moment, pursing her lips. "He's fine, though his mother's not entirely convinced. She's arranging to have him work with Father Timothy as a punishment."

Connor couldn't contain a bark of laughter. "Omar, an altar boy?"

"Apparently, it was his idea."

"No kidding." He glanced heavenward, feeling somehow lighter.

"Was it true?" she asked after a moment. "You really did it to _stop_ him from smoking?"

"It is, and I'll not apologize for it. It worked for my brother and me."

Leah eyed the pack in his hand. "Yes, I can see how well it worked."

"Not indefinitely," Connor said, putting the pack away quickly, his neck warming. "But for a few good years, until we were old enough to buy them ourselves and not be snatchin' 'em after school. Smartest thing our Uncle Siebal ever did for us."

"But what did your parents have to say about it?"

He thought seriously before answering. "Ma never knew. And my Da-I think he would've been glad for it. I think he'd have appreciated the intervention."

"Oh," she said softly, "I'm sorry."

Something in her voice made him uncomfortable and he shrugged, sucking in a lungful of cold air. "It's inaction that's the hardest to fight. Indifference, apathy, whatever you want to call it. Our Da was never one to work that way, and neither are we. We did what we did for Omar because it would have been wrong not to, and-"

Cool fingers closed around his empty right hand. Silently, Leah lifted it, turned it up, and dropped the long-lost Zippo into his open palm.

"Thought you'd thrown it away," he said.

"Don't make me regret it."

"Oh, be honest. You regret it already."

Her lips twitched. "Smoke fast then, before I decide to take it back."

It was hard not to ponder her possible methods. But he lit up obediently, and tried to keep his mind on his mission. An icy gust cut under his collar. Leah shivered.

"Why don't you head back inside with the rest of the heroes?" he asked.

"I should," she said, frowning at the door.

They remained in silence for a moment, Leah bouncing a little to keep warm, Connor trying to keep his smoke from drifting straight at her. Why _didn't_ she go back inside? Just as the tiniest scrap of curiosity began to take root inside him, he remembered what had sent her out here in the first place. Or rather, who.

He was quickly running out of cigarette, and it was pushing fate to think she'd linger for a second one. He flicked the butt away. "So. Have you always had authority issues, or is this a recent development?"

"Excuse me?"

"You're not out here to catch cancer. You've some sort of beef with Detective Beckman. And you didn't have much love to spare for Tom Duffy the other night. But the beat cops you're right chummy with. Love the uni's, hate the suits. Authority issues—unless there's something else I'm missing."

Leah stared at the cigarette butt, still glowing as it twitched in the gutter. "You wouldn't understand."

"Oh, no? I thought you knew all about me. Me and my many fans."

Leah shuffled her feet. "Can I ask you something?"

"No."

He'd expected a smile, but the attempt fell flat, like all the others.

"When you turned yourself in," she began, "when you were talking to the detectives, was there ever a time…I mean, did you ever worry if you were doing the right thing?"

Connor moved close enough that his voice wouldn't carry to the other clusters of smokers nearby. "You mean, when I was facing murder charges, did I wonder if I maybe should have kept my mouth shut, and just prayed for the best?"

The wind blew her pale hair back from her face as she looked at him, her eyes shining in the darkness. God help him, she really did want a straight answer.

"Of course I did," he said. "I'm not a complete idiot. But you can believe there was a fat lot of praying as well."

If it was the answer she was hoping for, he couldn't tell. She'd turned back to stare at the gutter again, though his cigarette had blown away.

They were standing shoulder to shoulder now, a millimeter of thin night air between them.

"Look," Connor said, "Agent Smecker's a good man. And Duffy, and Dolly, and hell, even Greenly. They want the same things you do. Beckman, I don't know. He's a bit of an asshole."

He thought he caught a glimpse of a smile at last, but the bang of the pub door slamming in the wind made both of them turn around. And it was Beckman himself walking a few steps up the block in the opposite direction, ducking his head against the wind and cupping his hands around the cell phone on his ear.

"Speak of the devil," Connor muttered.

Leah watched him, her expression becoming unreadable. "He thinks I'm lying to him," she said matter-of-factly.

_Are you?_ Connor almost asked. What could he say to that, without giving himself away? Or worse, scaring her into silence again? Murphy would've come up with something-if he didn't run away first.

Beckman turned, still on the phone and oblivious, but now pacing in their direction.

She backed up reflexively, and Connor caught her lightly on the arm. "C'mon," he said, "the next round's on me." If he couldn't break through the ice, he would have to melt it. He gave her his best smile.

Her eyes narrowed. "I hope this isn't another misguided _intervention_."

"Are you in need of one?" he asked, opening the door for her. "Because I'll confess, my plan is to get you tossed. "

Her lips twitched again. "Honesty. How refreshing."

"Well, to be _perfectly_ honest, I'm aiming to get you tossed…because I dearly want to see this parlor trick of yours with my own eyes."

She glanced behind her at Beckman, then up at Connor. Her dimple tucked into the curve of her cheek. A strange buzzing grew in him.

"Save your money, MacManus. I'm a lot more impressive sober."

* * *

What the hell was Connor _doing_ out there?

Murphy was about to go see for himself when Greenly made his way over, giving Murphy a thumbs-up then tripping over a chair. Murphy helped him up, hoping whatever the drunken detective had done was worth the cigarette he'd skipped.

Snubbing the chair she'd vacated beside Murphy, Annie was leaning against a neighboring table and, one by one, sucking the juice from her extra limes.

With effort, Murphy averted his eyes, spotting Leah and Connor as they returned-together.

He gave Connor a look as they maneuvered chairs around the little table.

Connor waited until Leah's back was turned, then grinned, giving Murphy a flash of the silver lighter in his hand. Murphy smiled. _Nicely done_.

Ortie half-jokingly refused Leah a seat. "This is the game table," he said. "You only get to sit here if Tom-Tom comes out to play."

Leah rolled her eyes. "Fine."

"Really?" Ortie's face lit up, as if he'd expected the opposite and couldn't believe his luck.

"Yes, really. But _only_ to prove once and for all that John did not, in fact, teach me everything I know."

"And because it's my dying wish?" John asked, rubbing his hands together excitedly.

Everyone looked to Leah. She glanced behind her to the door, then turned back and gave Connor a small smile. "Lay it on me."

"That's what I'm talking about!" Ortie said, pumping his fist in the air, nearly hitting Paulette as she appeared with a tray of amber-filled shot glasses. Ortie balanced it on a pedestal of empty beer glasses in the center of the table. "This was supposed to be your farewell toast, old man, but I can see now it's called to serve a higher purpose." He pointed with both hands at Connor and Murphy. "All right, tell me where you doubting Micks have been in the states, besides Boston. Providence? New York?"

"Too easy," John said, waving dismissively. "Let's try somewhere more exotic. You're from Los Angeles, right?" he asked Annie. "And Leah, you took that trip in high school?"

Leah shrugged. "Just a weekend."

John nodded. "Good enough," he said. His sheer confidence was enough to gain the attention of several people at the surrounding tables. "Okay, Annie. Ask her something."

Annie wiped lime juice from her fingertips. "Ask her what?"

"Something she'd have to know from a map. Ask her for directions."

"Um, okay." Annie's eyes drifted up and left as she thought. "What's the name of the street that takes you from the 405 to LAX?"

Christ, even Murphy knew that. There were a few titters between friends who were listening at surrounding tables.

"Century Boulevard," Leah said. "Come on, newbie. Don't waste my time."

"Did I mention this was a drinking game?" Ortie asked, holding out one of the shots to Annie.

"Seriously?" Annie groaned. "Oh, all right. I guess that was kind of a gimmie." She took the shot quickly, her face contorting. "Ugh. Jameson is the _worst_."

"Ooh," Newman said to Murphy. "You going to let her get away with that?"

Mitchell shook his head at Annie. "You do know you're in an Irish pub, right?"

Murphy tugged his rosary beads partway from the collar of his shirt. "My Lord, she is heartily sorry for all her sins, help her to live like Jesus and not sin again. Amen."

Connor made the sign of the cross over her. "I absolve you from your sins and your heartless, uncultured American blasphemy, _in nominee patris, et fillii, et Spiritu Sancti._"

Annie swatted Connor's hand away. She took a breath. "Okay, fine. How about this? Name _two _different routes to get from downtown to Newport Beach."

Leah's eyes closed, and she ran her tongue along her teeth. "One-ten to the Pacific Coast Highway; 134 to I-5 to the Costa Mesa Freeway; 710 to I-405 to Harbor ...I'm sorry, how many did you ask for?"

Annie's eyes narrowed to slits. "First of all, it's _the_ 405, not _I_-405,'" she said, leaning to look under the table, then turning to the small crowd that was gathering behind her. "So, who's got it? Come on, I can tell when I'm being hustled."

John laughed, and Ortie plucked another shot glass from the tray. "That's two for the champ. Bottoms up, lightweight."

"They're _both_ lightweights," Greenly said. "This game fucking rocks."

"Hey," Annie said, "Connor and Murphy are the ones who started this little war. How come I have to take the shots?"

"Because you're the only one that's been to L.A." Ortie said. "Right?"

"Hmm," Connor said, meeting Murphy's death stare. "Well, it _is_ true we put you up to it, so…" He handed a shot to Murphy. "Now you're not sufferin' alone." The scent of the whiskey hit him, warm and familiar, and right now—for some reason, completely unappetizing.

Connor watched him with a knowing smile. "_Sláinte_."

"_Sláinte_!" A dozen voices echoed, glasses clinking all around him.

Murphy let the shot fill his mouth, then reached for his near-empty Guinness and, pretending to take a drink, spit the whiskey back into the glass.

Annie downed her second shot with a shudder, to the cheers and laughter of her co-workers.

Greenly and the cops behind Annie began to make suggestions, a few of them whispering in her ear. Most of the paramedics had joined Leah's camp, where there was much less conspiring, and a lot more smug smack talk. Few who knew the woman had any doubt in her whatsoever.

And rightly so. Annie rattled off the questions, each time sure she had a stumper—and each time amazed when Leah closed her eyes for a moment, then came back-every single time—with the right answer. Greenly, Mitchell, Newman, and even Leah each took a turn standing in to take Annie's penalty shot, but it reduced the damage only slightly—Murphy lost count after her fourth shot. He continued to play at sharing the punishment, covertly emptying his beer glass into the potted plant when a particularly tricky question had everyone's attention on the girls. The crowd of on-lookers grew.

Ortie called a time-out when the brown tray was empty, searching in vain for the waitress. That was when Murphy saw Beckman at the door.

"Ready to throw in the towel?" Leah asked Annie. "I guess I should have warned you. I've never lost this game."

"'s not over yet," Annie declared, the bravado not quite effective when the words were slurred. "I've got one last question—hope _you_ like the taste of Jameson."

"I adore it," Leah said, "but, sadly, we appear to be fresh out. Since you're obviously not my designated driver anymore – play for cab fare?"

"Fine by me," Annie said. "Lemme know when you're ready, freak show."

"Careful, newbie," John said.

Leah simply smiled. "Oh, if I had a nickel..." she said, leaning back in her chair, twirling a lock of blonde hair around her finger while she waited for Greenly and the others to finish making side bets.

Murphy caught Connor staring, and neither his brother nor Leah saw Beckman slip in among the throng behind her.

"I've a mind to put my money on Annie," Connor said, plenty loud enough for both women to hear. "But I've a fear she'll throw the game just to see me pay up."

"She won't if it's me you're payin'," Murphy said, and at the glare he received from Annie, he went for his wallet. "My bet's on Tom-Tom."

Connor laid a five on an empty coaster. "Suit yourself."

Leah watched his brother thoughtfully. "You sure take a lot of convincing."

"_I_ believe in you, Leah," Murphy said, "but then, I've the advantage of having seen Annie langered before."

"I am _not_ langered," Annie said, not quite getting the word out right.

Murphy peeked in his wallet. A lone ten-dollar bill remained. _She's a phenomenon_, he told himself, and laid it over Connor's money, giving Leah a wink.

Annie glowered at him.

"Everybody set?" John asked. "Okay, Annie. Don't hold back. She's not as scary as she seems."

Annie laughed, then took an extra-long drink before she spoke. She began the question slowly, perhaps for dramatic effect, but more likely she was concentrating extra hard to get the words out.

"What is the name of the road that connects Pasadena to San Bernardino?"

There were a few cries of protest from the cops, and it was easy to see why – the question sounded remarkably simple. But Annie's sister lived in that area; that was where she'd been these last three years. If there was any chance of her out-smarting Leah, this was probably it.

Leah closed her eyes. It took several seconds for her to respond, long enough for Murphy to recall his own travels. It wasn't until she'd given her answer that he realized Annie might be cheating.

"Foothill Boulevard," Leah said.

"Ha!" Annie said. "You can't win 'em all, Rain Man! It's the 210 freeway." Murphy crossed his arms, watching her give high-fives to Greenly and Mitchell. It surprised him how badly he wanted to call her out.

Leah was frowning. "I'm pretty sure," was all she said.

One of the cops held up an iPhone, colored criss-crossing lines showing on its small screen. "According to Google maps – the point goes to Annie."

Cheers and protests erupted from the opposing camps. Smirking, Connor reached for Murphy's money, but Murphy was faster. He snatched it back and started to open his wallet.

"Nice try," Connor said, his palm still open. "Fork it over."

Leah was watching him, and because she was still center-stage, it made several other sets of eyes turn on him, including Annie's.

Murphy hesitated, then made the same decision he always did. "_La vérité ne vaut pas le prix_," he said quietly, letting his brother have the money.

Leah's eyes sharpened, and for a moment, he was sure she'd understood him.

Connor said nothing, but his eyes held a million questions as he tucked the ten into his wallet.

"What was that, Murphy?" Annie asked.

"Nothing. Congratulations, Ann, that was...well-played."

She lifted her chin, her face coloring. "It was. _Thank you_."

The heads of the bystanders swiveled, like fans at a tennis match. Murphy clenched his jaw. Why couldn't he keep his mouth shut?

John's face puzzled. "Do you know something we don't, Murphy?"

Murphy shook his head, rubbing a hand over his mouth, unsure of what might come out if he spoke again.

"Leah's map was probably old," John said fairly. "Which means-"

"They could both be right," a familiar, self-important voice said. Like an over-dressed ghost, Beckman materialized from where Murphy had forgotten about him in the crowd.

Leah's lips were pressed together, and she stared downward and slightly to the right, where Beckman's shiny shoes had suddenly appeared next to her chair.

"How about a new question?" Ortie suggested.

"No, Annie won," Leah said flatly. "I must have remembered it wrong."

Groans and curses spewed from the group of paramedics. Leah checked her watch. "It's getting late, guys."

John looked puzzled. "But you've never-"

"I can't explain it, John," she said, shrugging on her coat. "Maybe I'm losing my touch."

"Come on, don't leave," Ortie said. "Let her give you a new question."

"It's _fine_," Leah said. "Annie, here – your hard-earned winnings. Twenty enough?"

"I have a better idea," Beckman said. "Forget the cab-why don't I give you both a ride?"

"That's really sweet," Leah said, moving the opposite direction though it was the long way around. "But the thing is…Connor's already taking me."

Oh, really? This was news to Murphy. He looked to his brother for confirmation, but Connor's split-second glance didn't explain much.

Okay, then. The idea was to get close to Leah and unearth the truth. Who would have guessed she'd come along so willingly?

"Annie?" Beckman asked.

The cops and medics were starting to gather coats and purses; apparently the end of the game had signaled the end of the night as well.

"Sure, Josh, that'd be great," she said, swaying a bit as she rose from her chair. "When are you going?"

Beckman put a totally unnecessary arm around her. "Whenever you're ready. I'm at your disposal."

Murphy turned away and made his good-bye rounds, making a mental note to look up the German translation for _douche bag_.

He was on his second cigarette when Connor and Leah caught up to him outside.

Connor started the car warming up. Murphy gestured for Leah to take the front seat and was about to fold himself into the back when Annie wobbled over, cheeks flushed, dark hair blowing in the wind.

"Josh got a call—sounds like official business. Can I ride with you guys?"

[***]

* * *

...

...

**_Author's Note_**_: Murphy's French line: "The truth is not worth the price."_


	19. Threat

**[Chapter 19: Threat]**

"Thanks," Annie said as she settled into the backseat next to Murphy. "Sorry for the extra trip, I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," Connor said, waiting for Leah to buckle up before pulling away from Doc's and into traffic. Annie struggled to fasten her seatbelt and Murphy reached over to help her.

"Thanks," she said again, her smile sleepy. "I think my fingers are cold."

"I think your fingers are drunk," Murphy said. "If this is winning, it's about time to retire."

"Score was fourteen to one," Leah said from the front seat. "I wouldn't say she won."

Connor laughed to himself and said very quietly, "Murph wouldn't either."

Murphy cleared his throat. "Where's your place, Ann? We're not taking you out to the Fen, are we?"

"You don't think I won." Annie said. She didn't phrase it as a question.

"I think you did very well…at playing your advantage."

Leah twisted around to see him.

"She was wrong," Annie insisted. "I mean, Leah, you're _amazing_ and everything—but I totally stumped you."

Murphy couldn't stop himself. "You didn't stump her. At best it was a draw."

Connor jerked the wheel slightly, his eyes skipping back and forth from the road to the rearview mirror.

Annie's nose lifted. "I won. Doesn't matter if it's only because she's conceited."

There was a beat of silence and Connor almost missed a red light.

"You mean, because she _conceded_?" he asked.

"That's what I _said_." Annie relaxed against the seat, closing her eyes as she went on, "I have to say though, Leah, I was a little shocked. But impressed, too, you know you really weren't a sore loser at all, even though John and Ortie and all the other medics were so disappointed and everyone lost _so_ much money."

Leah turned forward again, and if Murphy had to guess, her shaking head seemed more bemused than annoyed. Her directions home took them through some of the busier nighttime areas and they sat through two cycles of a light before they could make the next turn. For the moment, Annie was quiet, and he wondered if she'd finally passed out.

Then he felt a poke on his arm. "Hey, what did you mean _playing my advantage_?"

Damn. Murphy mustered a smile. "Just rest your eyes, darlin'. We can talk about it later."

"Christ," Connor said._ "Crece algunas cojones ya. Dígale la verdad."_

Leah looked at Connor in surprise, but his brother didn't notice.

Murphy locked eyes with him in the mirror. "_No te metas_," he said. "_¿Es posible? ¿Por una vez?"_

"_Ella está demasiado borracho para recordarlo mañana," _Connor said with a shrug. "_Decirle acerca de California tambien_."

"This might come as a shock, guys, but some words actually sound the _same_ in Spanish..." Annie yawned then glared at Murphy. "At least talk crap about me in English so Leah can laugh, too."

"The lush makes a point," Leah said.

Connor stopped at another light. "I'm sorry, Leah, I'm not usually so thoughtless. I was simply pointing out to my brother that since Annie's thrown back enough whiskey to kill a small horse, she's not likely to remember a word of this conversation in the morning. So there's no harm in Murph telling us why he thinks she's a lying cheat."

Leah glanced behind her, biting her lip.

"Thanks, Con," Murphy said. Even in the darkness, he thought he could see Annie's face flaming.

"Leah _was_ right," he said quickly, "but her map was old. She was there years ago, before that freeway existed – you knew it, and you used it."

Annie's eyes had darkened, and she seemed to be pulling him into focus for the first time.

His heart knocked around in his chest, and he turned to Leah. "Am I right?"

"Could be," she said, collecting her purse, then pointing up ahead. "That's my building there." She unbuckled her seat belt. "Don't bother trying to find a parking space."

Connor pulled into the small lot and parked in a red zone.

"Thanks for the ride," Leah said, hopping out, then quickly leaning back in. "Annie, are you going to be all right?"

Annie gave her a smile and a double thumbs-up.

"Keep an eye on her," Leah told Murphy, then said over the top of the car to Connor, "I can make it from here. I'm just up those stairs."

"Good, then I won't have to strain myself," Connor said.

With another sigh, like it wasn't worth the effort to argue, she bid Annie and Murphy good night.

Connor leaned in and had the nerve to wink at them before he shut the door. "You kids behave yourselves."

* * *

Connor shut the door, locking Annie and Murphy inside while he walked Leah up the stairs to her door.

Murphy rolled his neck and shoulders, contemplating crawling through to the front seat. His legs were spread wide and he was still folded up like an accordion. Ironically, this backseat was probably more spacious than others he'd traversed with Annie. Of course back then, personal space wasn't generally their top concern.

The air between them chilled, tinged with the scent of whiskey and peaches. Annie shifted, turning her back to the door so that she faced him, her leather jacket squeaking with the movement. He got the feeling she was waiting for something. The shaft of yellow light from the street lamp cut across her shoulder and her neck, the rise of her breast and the tip of her nose, but left the rest of her face in shadow.

"How do you know about the 210 freeway?" Her voice was sleepy again, without the anger he expected.

She leaned forward, her face coming into the light. His mouth was impossibly dry. He looked down and found his lighter and cigs already in hand. It had been years since he'd had that last smoke. Decades.

"You want the front?" he asked. He tried for the handle, but couldn't reach it from the backseat. The window button was closer, but did nothing when he pushed it. Connor had taken the keys.

"Don't do that," she said softly.

"Do what? If you don't want the front, then I'm taking it." He grappled for the lever to flip the front seat down. Conquering it, he swung the door open and heard a woman scream.

* * *

Leah quickly climbed the stairs to her apartment, leaving Connor in her wake at the bottom, wondering why the hell he was doing this. What did he think was going to happen up there? Alone, on the privacy of her small balcony, was there even a chance he could salvage this? Grateful that Murphy would be too preoccupied with backpedaling to be watching, he took the last steps two at a time, catching Leah as she reached the darkened landing.

He was about to comment that she should have left her porch light on when the shadow by her door moved. Leah screamed. A heavy man in dark clothing shoved her aside into Connor, knocking him into some potted plants that broke with a crash. A lucky grab for the railing kept him from tumbling backwards down the stairs. Heart hammering, he pulled Leah to her feet, hearing Murphy shout to him from below. Footsteps slapped away into the darkness. An engine roared and Connor couldn't believe his eyes. He yanked the car keys from his pocket.

"Murph—it's him! GO!"

Connor watched his brother catch the keys one-handed then nearly get flattened by the two-toned beater as it spun out of the lot. Damn, why hadn't he left the engine running? He could hear Murphy shouting at Annie, then the LTD roared in pursuit.

He watched until he could no longer see the taillights, listened until he could no longer hear the rumbling engine. He scanned the parking lot, waiting for Annie to come stomping or stumbling into the light. But there was nothing and no one in the lot but cars.

Which meant Annie was still in the LTD.

_Fucking grand_.

The landing flooded with light. Leah stood with her hand on the switch, staring at her front door.

Three words were scrawled in dark red spray paint, one on top of the other, the letters starting at about a foot tall, but slanting and shrinking by the end of the last word, as if the writer had hurried to finish it. Several wet spots still glistened, dripping like blood down the white wood. "_Learn to forget_," Connor read. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Leah continued to stare at the door. A chilly wind blew around them but the smell of paint lingered.

"You all right, love?" He moved towards her and she stepped back, glancing at the parking lot, hugging her arms tightly around herself.

"You said, 'It's _him_.' That's what you said to your brother."

It wasn't a question, per se. But he knew by the affected casualness in her voice, that his answer had better be damn convincing.

"Aye, _him_, as in, 'that's the vandalizing bastard starting up his car, hurry and stop him before he gets away.'" He risked a half-smile. "Murph was closer, and I didn't know if you were hurt—are you? Looks like you're nursin' an elbow there."

"You're saying you don't know who that man was?"

"I don't," he said, glad that it wasn't really a lie. "Do you?"

Her eyes darted away. "Nope. Just some random tagger. Guess my mom was right about this neighborhood."

She unlocked the door and stepped inside, flipping on every available light while Connor concentrated on biting his tongue. She closed the door in his face, but didn't latch it. "Just give me a minute," she called.

Connor wondered whether that meant, _just give me a minute,_ _I'll be right back, don't come in my home since I barely know you from Adam_; or _just give me a minute to straighten up my house before I invite you in. _

The wondering lasted only a moment, then he stepped inside after her, mildly regretting how heavy and inappropriate his boots felt on the pale carpet. After verifying the living room and hall closet were empty of intruders, he quickly bypassed the kitchen, where the sounds of cabinets slamming and water running made him hope she was occupied enough not to protest his inspection of the rest of the apartment. There was a bedroom and an office and two bathrooms, all seeming to be so secure as to appear almost unlived-in: beds crisply made, furniture dusted and uncluttered, towels hung up, not a shoe or a jacket or a stack of mail left out in the open to indicate human existence. The place smelled faintly of vanilla and _clean_, and he returned to the kitchen breathing it deeply as he pulled out his phone and started to dial Smecker.

At the beep of the buttons, Leah jumped, dropping a large bowl of water into the sink with a clatter.

"Holy crap, you scared me. I thought I was alone in here."

"Thought I'd make sure of it," Connor said, noticing the two white sponges tucked under her arm. "The coast is clear – and very _clean_ I might add. Don't you think you ought to have someone take a look at your new custom paint job before you go and scrub it away?"

"Someone like the police?" Leah glanced darkly at him as she refilled the bowl. "Did you call them?"

"I didn't, no," he said, casually slipping the phone into his back pocket. "But I think you should."

She gave a cynical smile, picking up the bowl and sponges again. Connor leaned against the doorway, not-so-subtly blocking her way.

"Seriously, Leah. You have to at least take a picture of it."

"No, I don't." Her expression was a kaleidoscope of disbelief and annoyance, with a shade of amusement. "Connor, were you _in_ that bar tonight? You may have noticed I don't have a burning need for a point-and-shoot."

"Parlor tricks again?" Connor asked, moving a fraction to the side so that she had to squeeze past him. "Aye, I was in the bar tonight," he said, following her back out onto the balcony. "And I watched you _lose_ that little game—to the likes of a sorely pickled Annie Lucas, no less."

"I didn't lose," she said, pulling the door closed behind them. "Remember? I'm conceited."

Connor smiled. "Semantics."

She set the bowl on the welcome mat and dipped a white sponge in and said matter-of-factly, "On my map, the fifty-three mile stretch of road from the city of Pasadena to the city of San Bernardino was titled Foothill Boulevard. Black font, all caps, and the road line itself was thin, generally yellow, sometimes black—_not_ a freeway."

She squeezed the excess water out and began to scrub at the letters, glancing up at Connor after several seconds.

"Rand McNally," she said, closing her eyes with a sigh. "Copyright 2002. You can look it up."

"So, the Tom-Tom thing-"

"Yes, it's real."

"Huh." It took a moment to comprehend. What did it mean exactly? It was cool, to be sure, but how did that make her any more valuable to Beckman? Did the detective think she had some handle on their getaway route? No, that didn't make any sense. He resisted the very strong urge to test her—to quiz her on every bit of Boston and New York he could remember. Too bad she'd never been to Ireland, or he could try that on her. Of course, he hadn't lived there in nearly a decade. If she really was a map-memorizing genius, she'd probably know the home country better than he did. The thought made him strangely uncomfortable-and a bit homesick.

"So, this story I heard about you having 47 DUIs…"

She smiled as she scrubbed. "Not _my_ DUIs. Forty-seven suspected drunk drivers I've called in."

"Ah. Whistle-blower."

"For drunks, hell yes I am. John got a kick out of it for some reason. It was his idea to start keeping track."

She was scrubbing faster now. "Don't tell anyone, okay? I mean about me letting Annie win. I don't want any more questions."

"Like, why'd you do it? If I'm to keep my mouth shut, you at least have to give me that."

She gave him a sideways look.

"C'mon, you were kicking Annie's ass," he said, watching her scrub away at the door. "A thing I'll admit I was enjoying more than I probably should have." He moved beside her so he could see her face. "Tell me why you let her win."

Leah pursed her lips. "Tell me why you hate her so much."

"I don't _hate_ her. Christ."

He backed up to the railing, jumping when a piece of broken terra cotta crunched under his heel. Leah raised an eyebrow and he could feel his window closing. "Aye, we toss words, Annie and I. Believe it or not, we used to be good friends." He ran a hand through his hair. "In any case, I don't hate the girl. I just…love my brother."

She glanced at him, flipping her sponge to use the other, cleaner side. "Good friends," she said doubtfully. "So what happened?"

Lord, she was persistent. But at least she was talking, and he supposed that was progress. His hands sought out his lighter—so nice to have the weight back in his pocket—and a cigarette. "This story doesn't come cheap, you know."

Her head cocked slightly to the side, her eyes flitting briefly to his cigarette. "There's beer in the fridge."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know. But you first."

Connor leaned against the railing, his back to the wind. "Murph was going to move to New York."

"With Annie?"

He took a long, slow pull. "She had a job lined up, some design thing. At first she would drop hints—about all the _opportunities_, and the cost of living, and how it's so much easier to make it if you're not on your own…after a while she stopped talking about it in front of me." He blew smoke into the wind. "Out of the blue one day, I get a call from some landlord with a 212 area code wanting to know if Murphy MacManus could have his deposit there by the end of the week." He tapped his ash. "Murph never said one fucking word to me."

Leah worked the sponge thoughtfully on a tiny, stubborn bit of paint. "Maybe he was afraid to," she said.

Connor scoffed. "It never went down, in any case," he said. "They had a fight, and the next day she was gone. Disappeared. Never even walked at her own graduation."

Leah turned around. "Really?"

"Murph thought she'd gone on to New York, so he tried there first. Tried asking her uncle – that didn't go well. Finally he flew to L.A. Came home a week later alone."

"What happened in L.A.?"

"Uh-uh. Your turn first."

Leah narrowed her eyes and Connor grinned.

"Well, I can't compete with the bi-coastal drama. Mine's no conspiracy," she said with an overly-casual shrug. "The crowd was making me claustrophobic. It was time to call it a night."

"And by crowd, you mean Beckman."

"Yeah, okay. Beckman."

He could see the admission was difficult for her, despite their earlier talk about the detective. Connor closed his eyes, feigning hurt, trying his best to keep the conversation light. "You mean to say hopping in my front seat wasn't just a clever ploy to get close to me?"

"Not quite. But what a lucky break you were already DD!"

"Grand. So I'm not the man you took home tonight—I'm just Beckman's lesser evil."

Leah smirked. "Don't be such a whiner. I'm sure you're less evil than a lot of things. Like…Al Queda…"

"And the IRS…"

"…Those people who use their cell phones in the theater."

"Nice," Connor said, taking the sponge from her. "Hold still, just let me scrub my ego from the bottom of your shoe."

Leah smiled, taking the sponge back and rinsing it. "Thanks for playing along about the ride. And for…sticking around."

She kept her eyes on the bowl of water. A cold gust of wind rustled the potted plants beside them and it occurred to him what a very odd situation he was in. And very dangerous. "Talk to me, Leah," Connor said quietly. "Tell me why you lied. Tell me how it could possibly matter to Beckman if you memorized a map of L.A."

She looked up at him, biting her lip, her eyes intense, and Connor held his breath for a very long moment until she spoke.

"It's not maps," she said finally, her voice barely audible above the wind. "That's just what John and Ortie see. I think Beckman suspects-I think he _knows…_that it's everything."

"That what's everything? You've got other tricks, besides maps?"

She smiled helplessly. "It's not about maps. And it's not a trick." She gestured openly with the eraser. "It's the way I'm wired. It's why school was always easy for me—times tables, spelling bees, the SATs…"

"License plate numbers."

"Yeah. I remember what I study. A little better than most people."

It was the absurdity of the understatement that knocked it home. "A photographic memory."

She scrubbed with a vengeance until the F in Forget was completely gone. "That's what people like to call it."

Jesus Christ. A photographic fucking memory. It all came rushing back: her description of the beater, and of the hooded man. He could only imagine what her description of the Saints would be, if Beckman ever got it out of her. Christ, it was no fucking wonder he was on her case! And on that note, was it really possible for her to sit here with him—the very man who one week ago had blown a bullet into the head of her captor—and even with her remarkable talent, not know it was him? He ought to be trying harder to disguise himself. He ought to be masking his accent, blending in.

But when his mouth opened, his voice insisted on sounding as Irish as ever: "These pictures," he said gently, "the ones in your head…you can tell Agent Smecker about them. I happen to know the man can keep a secret. And if you tell him you don't want to involve Beckman-"

Leah shook her head. "Look, I know you mean well, Connor, but you don't understand. I'm-" She shook her head again. "Forget it."

_I'm sorry, love_, he wanted to say. _That's easier said than done. _

Instead he crouched down next to her. "Have you any more of these sponges?"

She gave him the good smile—the one with the dimple—and scurried inside. He stood tall and stretched, idly scanning the parking lot.

Voices carried on the wind, from the west end of the lot, followed by car doors slamming. It occurred to him suddenly how exposed they were, up on this lighted pedestal, while God-knew-who could be crouched in the darkness below. A disturbing thought occurred to him: what if the guy in the beater hadn't come alone? Maybe he was just a distraction. There could easily be someone else still out there, listening in, biding his time for a real attack.

Alert—not paranoid, he told himself, his eyes sweeping the parking lot again, then the staircases to the other apartments, and the shrubbery and occasional trees in the planter below Leah's balcony. A spot of white in the darkness caught his eye and he leaned over the railing, trying to identify it. The object was smallish, and longer than it was wide. Cylindrical, maybe. Silvery on one end. Like a can of spray paint. Holy shit-of course! It must have been knocked from the guy's hand when Connor had rammed him into the railing. He squinted at it, then again at the surrounding landscape, until he was mostly convinced the area was devoid of lurking bad guys. What he wouldn't give to have his Beretta right now.

Leah came back with more sponges as he turned from the railing. "Hold that thought," he said, hurrying down the staircase. He stepped between two low bushes and found the can: rusted and old, but based on the smudge of fresh paint still on the nozzle, the exact right shade of red_. Brilliant!_ he thought, scouring the area for any sign of a cap, but finding none. Well, the can was certainly better than nothing. He was almost positive the guy hadn't been wearing gloves, which meant it was possible he'd just scored them a complete set of prints on the hooded murderer's getaway driver. Smecker would dance a fucking jig.

He tore two leaves from a bush, which he used to keep his own fingerprints off of it, then carried it carefully back up the stairs.

Leah was standing on the top step.

"Have you a plastic bag?" he asked, then because her hands were full, added, "If you tell me where, I'll grab it myself."

"Keeping a souvenir of our evening together?" One brow arched as she fixed her eyes on the can. "Because I know you're not thinking of giving that to the police."

Instinct had him scooting smoothly around her to the safety of the landing. "Just hear me out, all right?" Fingers beginning to cramp, he carefully set the can down on the narrow flat edge of the railing. "As you know, I have a few friends – should be nothing at all to have the prints on this thing run through the system. You don't even have to be involved. And it won't go anywhere near Beckman, or even Duffy or the other suits if you want."

She closed her eyes and squeezed her temples with one hand, and his mouth began to move too fast for his brain to keep up. "I can ask Chaffey, he'd do it for you-"

She looked up at him sharply.

"Not that it would be for _you_," he added, "because your name would never be mentioned, right? No reports. No trouble. No more troubles for you."

"No. No more troubles for me." She sighed, giving him a tight frown—of defeat, maybe? The longer he was with her the more difficult she was becoming to read. "Plastic bags are in the drawer to the right of the sink."

He hesitated. He'd expected a lot more arguing. But then she gave him a half-smile that sent him strolling into the kitchen with a bit of a spring in his step. Not quite putty in his hands—_yet_. He chose a gallon Ziplock and returned to the porch to find Leah holding the pieces of the broken terra cotta pot, biting her lip.

"It was an accident," she said, "I was bending over to pick up the broken pot and the wind blew, and I bumped the railing…"

The railing. Which was now empty.

He leaned over, scouring the thin stretch of dirt and bushes, the expanse of asphalt. No sign of the can. "Christ."

"Sorry," she said, sounding about as remorseful as Murphy whenever he drank the last beer in the fridge.

He scanned her face for a long moment. To accuse her would be to demolish anything he'd managed to build over the last three hours. But it nagged at him-if she felt that strongly about not running the prints, why didn't she just say so? Why not demand that he hand over the paint can and pretend he'd never found it?

Because she was smart. Because she knew he wouldn't give it up that easily. And because she didn't trust him.

"Borrow your keys?" he asked finally. "I saw you've a wee flashlight on there."

Leah pulled them slowly from her pocket. "It's not very bright."

Connor twisted the tiny thing on. "It'll do. Any idea which way it fell?"

"You know, Connor, this really isn't necessary."

He started down the stairs before his temper could answer for him.

He checked the bushes again, just to be sure, but of course nothing could be that easy. There were four cars parked relatively nearby. It was a very off chance, but the can could have bounced and rolled beneath one of them. He removed his coat and checked under all four, lowering to his stomach to shine the light behind every tire, but the can was nowhere to be seen. He glanced up; Leah was watching him, her face in shadow but the porch light behind her glowing through her hair like some sort of golden halo. _Ha! _

She stood on the top step, waiting, as he lumbered back up. He moved past her silently, still not sure he could trust his tongue, and shined the flashlight around the potted plants, and into every dark corner of the balcony.

"Think maybe it teleported under the ficus tree?" Leah asked.

Connor twisted the tiny flashlight off. "What I think," he said, handing her back the keys and looking her straight in the eye, "is that it's no bloody wonder the cops think you're holding out on them."

Her eyes widened slightly and then her face turned to stone. "Your brother should be about done with his wild goose chase by now. Why don't you call him to come pick you up?"

Without waiting for an answer she wiped her hands on the front of her pants and marched inside.

Catching it before it slammed, he went in after her.

"We've only the one cell phone," he told her. "And I've got it. You'll have to give Annie a ring."

She rolled her eyes meanly. "One phone between the two of you, seriously?"

"One car as well—but that didn't stop you from asking me for a ride."

She pulled two beers from the fridge and handed one him. He set it on the counter.

"Do you always serve drinks to your unwanted guests?" he asked.

She tossed her hair over her shoulder, set down her bottle and picked up his. "Who said it was for you?"

"I'm just trying to understand what's going on here. I wish you would trust me."

"I don't even _know_ you, Connor!" she said, gesturing widely with the beer. "I don't know what you do, or where you live, or why you're even in America to begin with! People aren't always what they seem to be, you know—and everyone's got something to hide-_everyone_. You-you _claim_ to be a straight shooter, but-"

"Do I?"

She pointed to his left hand with her beer. "Well, you've got it tattooed on your damn finger."

"You know Latin?"

"Not exactly."

His cell phone rang, startling them both. It was a number he didn't recognize.

* * *

Murphy flew out of the LTD, heart hammering as he realized where the scream had come from.

A heavy figure thundered down Leah's staircase and cut across the lot.

"Con!" Murphy called, reaching the base of the stairs. He couldn't see Leah, but Connor was on the top step, gripping the railing – his eyes on the parking lot.

A car roared to life.

"Murph – it's him! GO!"

The flying keys flashed in the yellow porch light and Murphy caught them, spun, and narrowly avoided getting flattened—by the two-toned beater.

He couldn't get back to the LTD fast enough. Annie had opened her door. "Was that Leah?"

"Get out," he told her.

"Should you be driving? After all that-"

"Go upstairs with Connor and Leah. Now, Annie!"

The beater bottomed out leaving the parking lot and turned right. Damn it, he was not getting away this time!

"You're an idiot," Annie said, "But if you want to kill yourself, let me get my purse first…"

There was no time. Murphy gunned it, and the back door swung shut with Annie still on hands and knees in the back seat. He spun out of the lot and she gave a muffled cry.

It was Friday night, and the city wasn't exactly sleeping. Horns blared as he cut off car after car, straining to close the distance that only seemed to be growing. He was boxed in, three cars behind the beater when it ran a red light. Tires screeched, someone rammed a parked car.

"What is going on?" Annie demanded, finally able to right herself while he idled, waiting for the green. "What happened to Leah?"

"I don't know."

"So you just left her there? What if she's hurt?"

"Connor's with her. Any real trouble, they've got phones."

The light turned and the other cars inched ahead slowly, keeping pace with each other so it was impossible to pass. He rode the bumper of the Rav4 in front of him until the driver finally changed lanes, giving Murphy the finger as he sped past.

"Slow down, Speed Racer," Annie slurred. "Where are we going so fast?"

"Fuck, Annie, you'll know when I do, okay?"

They hit a series of teeth-chattering potholes and he braced himself for a blow-out, but amazingly, the tires held.

"_Please_ just tell me what's going on."

He blew out a sigh. "See that piece of shit Cutlass up there?" he asked, pointing.

She peered into the dark night, crawling over the center console and into the passenger seat. "With the funky paint?"

They hit another pothole. Her hands flew out, gripping the door and Murphy's leg to steady herself.

"Buckle up," he told her.

"'Cause _you're_ the safety patrol." But she obeyed, alternating her glare between him and the Cutlass as she fumbled for the buckle. "I'm sorry, did you already tell me why we're chasing this guy?"

"He…owes me money." It was the first thing that came to mind. He swerved around a looming pothole, preparing himself for another string of questions. But this time she was silent. He allowed himself a glance. Her eyes were closed, one hand on her stomach.

They crossed an intersection and the lanes went down to one in each direction. They came up fast on a white Chevy with a permanent left turn signal. Mentally crossing himself, Murphy swung into the opposing lane and flew past.

Annie pressed a hand over her heart and squealed a curse that was drowned out by the horn of an oncoming car.

Murphy zipped back into the right lane and gassed it. They were gaining– only one car between them now, and it was slowing for a turn. Murphy maneuvered around it easily and moved in…

Moved in for _what_? For the kill? He wasn't carrying the purse pistol, but even if he was –it's not like he could pass it to Annie and tell her take out the beater's tires.

Murphy kept pace, his mind racing. If he did stop the beater somehow – then what? Beat the guy into submission while Annie waited in the LTD, playing lookout?

They hit a dip in the road and the LTD's headlights bounced up and down on the bullet holes in the beater's rear window. Connor had certainly done a number on it. He couldn't be sure, in the blurring glare of reflected light, but it even looked like there was a bullet lodged in the license plate.

The license plate.

"Annie, can you read his plates?"

"Yeah, can't you? Oh, crap. I forgot, you drive by faith and not by sight." She tugged on her seatbelt. "Does this thing have airbags?"

"Just one." The Cutlass accelerated and Murphy fought to keep up. He squinted until his eyes ached from the strain. "Looks like a three…five…or S? Annie, read it to me."

"Why? If he owes you money, then you must know the guy-"

"Just read me the fucking numbers!"

"Fine! Three-five-J…"

Suddenly the Cutlass swerved, avoiding a pair of jaywalkers. Murphy braked and swerved, steering clear of the pedestrians, but giving the beater a substantial tap.

"Murphy!"

The glow of the beater's brake lights blurred until everything he saw looked red. An insane idea began to form. "Three-five-J, then what? What's the rest?"

"Three-five-J…" she trailed off, eyes squeezed shut, both hands on her stomach, breathing in those weird little huffs that meant he had about ten seconds to pull over before she ruined the upholstery.

Pushing the gas to the floor, he rocketed past the Cutlass, turning his head to look at the driver, and into a pair of black eyes that widened in slow motion. Watching the rearview, he waited until just the right moment, when both of the beater's headlights were visible behind him, then he swerved back into the lane.

"Brace yourself," he said, then slammed on the brakes.

* * *

...


	20. Chase

_A/N: Happy Valentine's Day! I love each and every one of you readers out there!_

**[Chapter 20 – Chase]**

"_Brace yourself," Murphy said, then slammed on the brakes..._

_..._

There was a shriek of tires, then a sickening crunch and they were shoved from behind, then thrown sideways. The LTD fishtailed, skidding, then stopped perpendicular in the lane, facing a chain-link fence bordering rows of train tracks. Murphy rubbed his head; good Lord, he'd hit it again.

Annie pushed herself off of him, wincing and holding her side.

"You okay?" he asked.

He squinted out the window – his head hadn't broken it, thank goodness. White light blinded him. Against the glare he couldn't tell what shape the Cutlass was in, other than it appeared now to have only one working headlight.

He shielded his eyes as the light flickered erratically and grew dimmer – the Cutlass was backing up. He tried the handle but the door was jammed. The other engine revved. Using his shoulder he shoved the door once, twice. It swung open and he stumbled out into the street, catching a last glance at the ugly dual paint job as the Cutlass turned. And sped away.

He heard a wet sound. Annie was throwing up in the gravel by the fence.

"Are you hurt?" he asked. She flipped him off, which he took as a good sign.

Moving carefully because stars were still shooting across his vision, he took a cursory look at the car's rear end.

God bless American engineering.

There was a baseball-sized dent in the bumper. The difficulty with the driver door meant there was some minor frame damage, but at least visibly, the worst of it was the busted left taillight, which could be replaced easily enough. All in all, not too bad, though it'd be a hell of a lot better if he had an immobilized two-toned Cutlass to show for it.

"Don't freak out, I'm going to move the car off the road," he said to Annie. He flipped the hazards on, though it was kind of pointless since the light nearest the street wasn't functional.

He felt his pockets but found only his pack of smokes and his lighter – no cell phone. Of course – Connor had it. Shit. Annie was still occupied so he found hers in her purse and dialed his own number.

Connor answered after the first ring. "_Who is this?_"

"It's fucking me, Con. I'm calling from Annie's phone. You guys all right?"

"_Right as rain, aye._ _You don't sound like you're driving_."

"I was this close, Con. I swear, if I would've had my…tools—I would've taken his fucking head off."

"_God fucking damn it."_

"I know."

"_Well, I imagine the extra baggage didn't help. Where are you now?"_

"By the rail yard. Annie's takin' a breather." He could see her bent over again, both hands pressed over her left side. In a swelling of guilt, he dug through the glove compartment until he found a napkin, thinking it might be wise to stock up. "Listen, when you talk to Smecker, tell him to put the search out for a Cutlass headed south on Dot Ave, license starts with three-five-J. Also it's… missing a headlight."

Connor was silent for another moment then his voice became oddly, cheerfully conversational. _"I can hardly wait to hear this story, Murph. Surely you should be the one to tell it."_

"I don't have his number, Con. What, is Leah right there? She doesn't want the cops involved I bet."

"_I always said you were sharper than you look."_

"How's the battle on the home front?"

Another pause. _"In progress."_

"Well, I can take the scenic route back, but for Christ's sake don't blow it this time. You'll not get a chance like this again."

"_Yeah. Good luck to you, too. Drive safe." _

Too late for that, Murphy thought, replacing the phone. He leaned on the hood, waiting, listening to the icy wind blow leaves and litter across the gravel.

Annie straightened, finally, and he handed her the napkin.

She wiped her mouth. Then slapped him.

"What the _hell_ is the matter with you?" she demanded, and even the gusting wind wasn't enough to muffle her fury. "You're lucky we're not both dead, you stupid shit-faced maniac-."

He grabbed her wrist before she could strike him again. "Enough! Jesus." The pain in his skull had doubled. "I am _not_ shit-faced," he said, throwing her arm down and working his jaw, willing the ache to subside. "I am sorry about the crash. You're all right?"

"No. I'm not even close to all right. Connor put you up to this, didn't he? Who _was_ that guy?" She was still holding her side.

"Connor didn't put me up to anything. I told you, the guy owes me money. Why don't you let me take a look at that?"

"Oh, what are you going to do, call an ambulance? I want to know his _name_."

"I don't know his name," he said, reaching carefully to lift her jacket. "Just let me take a look, Ann."

"No!" she exclaimed, backing away. "You expect me to believe you just crashed your car _on purpose_, trying—and failing, I might add—to stop some guy whose name you don't even _know_ – yet he supposedly owes you money?" The wind blasted them, and Annie clenched her coat tighter, wincing. "You forget that I know you, Murphy. You never _lend_ people money—you give it away! You'd hand out your last dime before letting some sob story owe you a debt."

Murphy rubbed his aching temples. "That must be the Jameson talking – I didn't think you had such a high opinion of me."

"I don't." She stepped closer, gravel crunching under her boot, making her wobble. "If by some miracle this isn't a load of crap-if you really pulled this lunatic car chase for the sake of your wallet, then…"

"Then what?" He smiled because he knew it would infuriate her.

Annie shook her head. "You are such a fucking hypocrite—but then, that's nothing new, is it? You always loved to fight. But never for things that matter. Never for…." She blinked, her voice shaky. "…for people you care about—outside of _family_."

"Is that it?" Murphy stared at her as the wind swirled around them. "You drunk enough to talk about that, are you? Darlin', here's a piece of free advice: next time, if you want me to chase you, don't run so fucking far away."

Her face hardened. "I am not talking about _that_."

Their eyes locked and he made no effort to hide what he felt. This was going to go down sooner or later. Might as well be here and now.

"If you've something more to say to me, Ann, fucking say it."

"You want to hear it? Fine. Your best friend was _murdered_." She jabbed a finger into his chest. "And you can't be bothered to lift a finger, except to-"

"To light candles, aye. And get tattooed." He swatted her hand away. "What would you have me do, Annie? Chase down serial killers?"

"Do _something_! Jesus, Murphy, Roc would've done it for you!"

Her voice broke, and he couldn't look at her, couldn't close his eyes, knowing what he would see.

"You should be asking around, talking to people," she said. "If the so-called Saints are really Irish like everyone says, you might even know them, or know someone else who does. They might go to your church! Hell, with a family tree like yours, you might even be related."

Murphy took a slow breath. He felt in his pockets for his lighter and a cigarette, fighting to get the thing lit despite the tremor in his hands. The wisp of smoke disappeared in the wind almost as soon as it burned. "Related," he said.

Annie shoved her hands in her jacket pockets, then winced, holding her side again. "Dude, I'm just saying—it's possible. In theory."

Murphy nodded slowly. "_Dude_, if only you could've been here in March to consult with the detectives. You'd have cracked the case the first day! Rocco would still be alive!"

"Screw you, Murphy."

"Not tonight, darlin', I have this headache. Plus, you should probably brush your teeth."

"Not that I'm surprised," she shot back. "I mean, it was only _Rocco_, after all. It's not like it was Connor."

Anyone else, and both fists would have been flying. Anyone else would have been unconscious before they hit the pavement.

He stared her down until she turned and opened the passenger door. She dug through her purse, then straightened partially, keeping her back to him. He could hear the beep of cell phone buttons.

"Who are you calling?"

She ignored him, cupping both hands around the phone. "Josh? It's Annie." Her voice was saccharine sweet. He could only imagine the other end. "Can you hear me?...Sorry, let me get out of the wind." She tried to pull the door shut, but Murphy stepped in, blocking it with his body. "Listen, can we get together?…Oh, just some information I came across…"

Murphy leaned into the car to listen, cigarette pinched in the corner of his lips.

"Tomorrow," Annie was saying. "Yeah, I'll be there, too…Do I need a ride?" She twisted away from Murphy. "Not tomorrow, but right now I could-"

He reached around her, took the phone and snapped it shut. He slammed her door, got in, then had to slam his own four times before it finally stayed closed. Her phone rang in his hand.

"Give it to me," she ordered. "It's Josh."

"Beckman," he spat, keying the ignition. "Of all the cops, you call _Beckman_."

"It's Beckman or a cab. I'm not letting you drive me anywhere."

He held the phone high with his left hand, up out of her reach until it went quiet.

Biting his cigarette between his lips, he tucked the phone into the front of his jeans, which, while certainly uncomfortable, had the desired effect of making Annie's face go two shades redder.

"You can have it back when we get to Leah's."

He shifted into gear, but her hand was on the door and there was no doubt in his mind she'd open it when he pulled out.

"I am _not drunk_," he said, "so you can fucking relax. One pint, that's all I've had."

"Bullshit. I saw you with my own eyes!"

"You didn't see what you think. Trust me, I'm sober as Sunday."

"_Trust_ you? Trust _you_?"

"Aye, _trust_ me," he said, breathing out the last of his cigarette. "Like you trust that white-toothed, loafer-wearing douche bag."

She took her hand off the door to wave away the cloud of smoke. He hit the automatic locks and pulled away from the curb.

"You don't get it, do you?" she asked, yanking on her seatbelt, wincing. "Beckman is smart. If I gave him a license plate number, _he_ would know what to do with it. And he cares – he actually cares about bringing the Saints to justice, which is more than I can say for some people."

Murphy stared at her in sudden revelation. "Holy Christ, that's what you're doing, isn't it? Getting your little public service job so you can make nice with Boston's finest and be part of the great take-down?" He gave a hard laugh. "You flew all the way back here, gave it all up, your art, your painting. You think you're doing something for Roc."

Her chin lifted. "I'm doing more than you are."

Murphy gripped the wheel as they hit the stretch of potholes. "This is fucking rich. You know, it wasn't just me you walked out on, Ann. Roc loved you, too."

Annie glanced at him sharply and he tightened his grip, his fingernails digging into his palms. "The point is – he's gone. And now you're feeling guilty and you want play Little Miss Righteous Avenger. Well, sorry to tell you, darlin, but it's too little, too late."

"Maybe it is," she said after a long moment, her voice small. "But I'm still going to try. And I'm sorry—no, I'm _sad_—that you don't understand."

The potholes were never-ending, the metal-on-metal racket from the loose bumper like the distant cocking of shotguns.

"What I don't understand," Murphy said a few minutes later, "is why you think Beckman's such a hero."

"What _I_ don't understand is why you find him so intimidating."

Murphy scoffed.

She leaned against the window, watching him. "Is it his badge? Or is it…something else?"

"Don't flatter yourself, darlin'. I got off that train a long time ago."

She didn't answer. And he didn't look at her.

* * *

"Good luck to you, too," Connor said to his brother. "Drive safe." He ended the call, then scrolled through his contacts and pulled up Smecker's number again, thinking he might need to feign a trip to the bathroom for this. Leah had been openly eavesdropping, leaning against her kitchen counter, peeling the label from her bottle of beer.

"No luck?" she asked.

"Nah. They lost him by the tracks." He glanced up. She was watching him.

"Who are you calling?" she asked, sounding simultaneously dangerous and innocent.

He smiled, and closed the phone. "No one. Hey, we ought to go finish cleaning up your door, don't you think? I've got to get you to bed." Her eyebrows rose almost to her hairline. Heat rushed to his face. "I mean, you'd probably like to get to bed. By yourself. Alone. To sleep." He ran a hand through his hair. "Murph should be back soon."

He took the bowl of fresh water and the sponges and led the way back to the balcony. "Grab your beers, will you?"

"Don't use too much water," she said, with no choice but to follow him. "And don't scrub too hard, or you'll take off the white paint, too. And don't-"

He gave her a look. She closed her mouth and they went to work on the door.

Three full minutes of silence passed. Leah glanced at him sideways and he began to wonder if he should have told Murphy to hurry, rather than delay. Focus on the task, he told himself, and did a final wipe of the area where the _r_ and the _n_ had been.

"Jesus," he said, running his finger over it. It was completely spotless, as if the foreign paint had never been there. "What sort of soap are we using?"

"There's no soap, it's a Magic Eraser."

"No shit. It's amazing."

Leah smiled. "You should try it on patio furniture."

"I've got to show Murph. You have any extras?"

"I am, in fact, embarrassingly well-stocked."

They shared a smile, and resumed their work, but it wasn't long before the silence again began to stretch into the uncomfortable zone.

This was pathetic. He'd asked Murphy for extra time—for what? So he could talk about magic sponges, with a woman who only trusted him as far as she could throw the evidence.

He knew his reputation was a sham. As if it took any special talent to tell a table full of margarita-drunken bachelorettes that at Lenny's down the street it was Karaoke Ladies' night. If anything, he was more con-man than ladies' man. Murph had far too much faith in him.

He switched the sponge to his left hand and after a few minutes noticed that Leah's eyes kept focusing on his tattoo whenever she thought he wasn't looking.

The con-man gears began to turn. Could the tat be his in? She'd already asked him about it once. Maybe she had a secret thing for guys with ink. Or, she was just curious, like a kid at the zoo. Still, curiosity could be useful.

"I was eighteen," he told her, opting for the truth since it was easier. "My brother and I had gotten ourselves into a bit of trouble. Some good people helped us out when they really had no reason to. It was big. Changed us, you could say."

"And the tattoos…"

"Are a reminder. Of work to be done. Good work. Sounds like bullshit, I know, but-"

"No, it doesn't. Well, not coming from you."

He wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean. He thought she'd say more but she remained silent, still glancing at his hand now and then, and he began to regret opening his mouth.

"What?" he asked finally.

"Well, I was wondering if it becomes a problem, having a tattoo on your hand. You know, with jobs."

There was the job question again. She wants the truth, he told himself. _So give it to her_. He cleared his throat. "I work at Noland's Meatpacking. Tats don't matter much when you're tossing slabs of beef onto a truck."

Her hand never stopped scrubbing, but her head tilted just slightly.

"It doesn't pay much, but my brother and I—we rent a place over on F street and Nolan's is enough to pay rent and keep beer in the fridge."

She nodded.

"And I came to America nine years ago…"

Her hand dropped away from the door.

Connor swallowed. "To find someone."

For the first time, she looked at him with clear eyes. His chest thumped as he guessed the inevitable question, so he asked his first.

"How much Latin do you know?"

She laughed. "How much do _you_ know?"

"More than you'd probably suspect. I sort of have a thing for languages."

"Well, sorry to disappoint, but I don't. _Veritas_ was my college's motto. And the rest is… more like a side-effect."

"Of what?"

He could feel her assessing, debating. He took a drink of his beer, watching her. _Take your time, darling. Take all the time in the world._

She picked up her own beer, smiling cynically. "Of my grooming for surgical greatness." She took a long drink. "My father thinks being a paramedic is a waste of my breeding."

"His exact words?"

She gave a one-shoulder shrug. "Near enough. That was…wow, seven years ago when I walked out of that hospital."

"You tell him to kiss your thoroughbred ass?"

She caught him checking out said ass and turned to hide it from view, rolling her eyes. "You'd think after all this time, he'd see things differently. But last week's adventure earned me the permanent seal of disapproval—not that I care."

"Why would he disapprove?" Connor asked. "You got away, you called for help."

"Not soon enough for Eugene Scuderi." Her finger traced a line of red down the door. "Or Martha Osborne. Or even that asshole Buffone."

It was unsettling to hear her call them by name.

"You saved your partner. And you're helping the police."

Her smile was miserable.

"Your father should be proud of what you did," he said quickly. "Hell, I am and I've only known you a week." _Don't cry don't cry don't cry._

She tilted her head a fraction. "You mean four days."

He felt a brief rush of panic and slid on a smile. "Oh, right. Feels like a lot longer."

"Hmm. I guess. I think my dad was just relieved he didn't have to operate on me. He did say he could get me back into HMS, provided I apologize to the dean." She gave a small chuckle and wiped moisture from her eyes. "Prick."

HMS? Her Majesty's Ship? _No, idiot. _Harvard Medical School. His mind caught on something else that dissipated as soon as he heard the unmistakable rumble of the LTD approaching.

What had happened to taking the scenic route? There was a painful clattering when the car hit the dip into the parking lot. The fender? At his distance, the front end looked untouched. Murphy turned the car and parked it so that Connor never got a clear view of the rear end.

The wind picked up as they stood there waiting for Murphy and Annie to get out of the car.

Leah elbowed him. "Hey, you never told me what happened in L.A."

"You ever find that out, darlin', you come and tell me. There'll be a case of Magical Erasers in it for you."

Her mouth dropped open. "You mean you don't know? God, you're such a tease!"

Connor grinned. "That's what they call me on the street. Connor the Tease."

"Yeah, right. Listen, your brother's not going to talk to anyone about this, is he?"

They both knew she meant the police. "I asked him not to. But I still think you should."

She frowned. "I told you, I'm not going to complicate my already screwed-up life by reporting some random graffiti."

"Oh, come on. _Learn _to_ forget_? On _your_ door? It's about as random as a smart bomb strike."

"You don't know that for sure."

He turned to her, made her look him in the eye. "It's a deliberate threat, Leah, and not a very nice one. Doesn't make me feel too good about leaving you here alone."

"You don't understand."

"So explain it to me."

She shook her head. "It's not your problem, Connor. Why do you care so much about this?"

"Maybe I care about you."

She looked at him, then away. But not before he caught the confusion in her eyes.

Jesus, what was he doing? She was right, her life was screwed up enough right now. To make no mention of his own. Gritting his teeth lest any more stupidity escape, he turned back to the LTD.

After a minute, Leah cleared her throat. "What do you think they're doing in there?"

"I don't want to know." The LTD's horn honked-a short, violent burst. Christ, he _really_ didn't want to know. "Guess I'd better go break it up," he said.

"Oh, wait—your eraser!" She slipped past him, inside. This was it, his chance was over. And he'd gotten no answers, only raised more questions. The missing gun was still a mystery, as were the bullets in the briefcase and computer, not to mention how the briefcase got thrown in the trash in the first place. Clearly, there were some cops she didn't trust. But who, and why? The ones she'd singled out, like Duffy, he knew for a fact to be trustworthy, so where did that leave him? On impulse he stepped inside and met her coming back from the kitchen, smiling when she presented him with a whole box of erasers.

"Thanks, love. Can I ask one more favor of you?" He hated to do it. But it had to be done. He took a breath and one last look at the dimple. "Will you promise to at least think about talking to Agent Smecker?"

It disappeared quickly, as he knew it would. "Fine. Promise me I won't find you out here in an hour, poking through the bushes."

That took him off-guard, since it was exactly what he'd planned to do. "You won't," he said. He'd have an easier time finding that can in the light of day anyway.

Leah looked doubtful. "Seriously. Promise me."

Gently, he took her chin in his hand and spoke slowly and clearly. "Leah Solomon, I give you my word. I won't be in your bushes tonight."

Her cheeks warmed beneath his fingers and he softened his hold. "Or tomorrow?" she added.

He wouldn't lie, not outright—and not while her eyes searched him like that. So there was only one option left….

* * *

The LTD's engine growled noisily with every start and stop, and the bumper knocked in a rhythm whenever it reached a cruising speed. The noise filled the atmosphere. Murphy was hearing it and hearing nothing, parts of him in chaos, the rest of him numb.

They neared the turn to Leah's apartment in silence. He cut the engine. Annie's head was tipped down and her hair hung over her face. Cautiously, he brushed it back, tucking it behind her ear. Eyes closed, her face turned into his palm.

She gave a deep sigh, but didn't wake.

Against his skin her cheek was soft and warm. With effort, he removed his hand. He watched her sleep; he couldn't help it. After a few minutes her eyelids began to flutter and he wondered if she had the nightmares too. They wouldn't be the same, of course, since her mind wasn't branded with those bloody, first-hand images. But her friends were dead, regardless, and those that were still living…well, he didn't hold out hope that any dreams of him had happy endings.

Her hand twitched on her lap, where it had fallen from cradling her hurt side.

He moved her hand aside and gently, very gently, tried to roll her shirt up to see the injury. But the shirt was too tight, and she moaned when his knuckles touched her ribs beneath the fabric.

"Sorry," he whispered, and started unbuttoning her shirt from the bottom-up when her phone rang, making him jerk back so fast he banged an elbow on the horn.

_Christ._ Annie barely stirred. And he knew what he needed to do.

* * *

Connor lifted Leah's chin gently, and heard her breathe in.

Her lips were soft and warm, and tasted lightly of beer, and after a moment of surprise, yielded beneath his. Her hand slid up his shoulder to the back of his neck, where she must have felt his pulse pounding-

_Bam! Bam! _

A heavy boot kicked at the door and they sprang apart. Connor put an eye to the peep hole.

"Christ," he muttered, and opened the door wide for Murphy and the unconscious Annie in his arms.

* * *

...


	21. Long Night

[Chapter 21: Long Night]

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.

Murphy shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over the back of their couch. Connor headed into the kitchen, reading the back of a small cardboard box as he went, and smiling to himself.

"Smecker still hasn't called back?" Murphy asked him.

Connor shook his head. "They're probably still trying to find the Cutlass. Damn, I wish I could have brought in those prints tonight. They could be running them right now. We could have an ID by morning."

"Tell me again why we don't have the prints?"

"First tell me what happened to the taillight."

Murphy shrugged. "The Cutlass ran into me."

"How? You were chasing _him_."

"I know, right? It's a crazy world."

"Speaking of crazy," Connor said, opening the fridge. "Ten minutes in a parked car, then you march in carrying Annie, half-dressed and out cold? I know it's been a while, but damn."

Murphy flipped him the double birdie.

"Aye, I'll bet that's exactly what happened—too bad Annie won't remember a bit of it."

Groaning, Murphy rubbed his eyes with the heels of both hands. He pulled out his pack of smokes, wanting to kick his own ass when he found it empty.

Connor handed him a beer, and opened another for himself. "Did you tell her about California?"

"Nope."

"She know about St. Patty's?"

"Yep. Not from Leah, though. That girl really can keep her mouth shut." He checked the cabinet where they usually kept cartons, surprised to find it empty as well. "Did you get anywhere with her?" he asked, going to search in the bedroom.

"I did." Connor said, following him. He stood in the doorway with an odd smile while Murphy checked all his jeans pockets, the nightstand and his underwear drawer. Where the hell had all his smokes gone?

"She's…complicated," Connor said. "But I think I'm beginning to understand her. And before you ask—no, I haven't touched your cigs."

"Are you sure?"

"Beyond sure. You should start buying in bulk."

"What are you on about? You smoke as much as I do."

Connor snorted. "Not since Monday."

The last week was a blur of bullets and adrenaline and not enough sleep. Too weary to try to remember what happened when, Murphy made a face and headed back to the kitchen.

"Come on, a full beer in your hand and an empty pack in your pants?" Connor said, following. "It's a sickness with only one cause."

Murphy's jaw tightened, sensing where this was headed, where it had been heading all along.

"You think I would have sent you out racing tonight if I thought you were on the piss? I know you better than you know yourself, Murph. You were spittin' that Jameson tonight, not swallowin'. Tell me I'm wrong."

"For the love of Christ, Con."

"Tell me I'm wrong!"

Murphy picked up his beer. "You're _wrong_, you cocky fuck."

"Bullshit. You're hung up like a string of Christmas lights."

"Fuck. You."

Connor laughed and produced a slightly smashed half-pack of cigarettes. "Admit it, and I'll give you the rest this pack free of charge."

Murphy made to leave the kitchen, but Connor was in his way. Murphy smiled. "Look-I'm drinking the beer." They stood toe to toe. "You want to talk hung up? Here's a toast to your glorious night of success—a sparklin' clean apartment door, and no fucking idea what that girl's supposed to forget, or who the fuck wants her to."

Connor thunked his beer can against Murphy's. "Here's to my fucking car, and the last time you'll ever drive it."

"_Our _fucking car, and I'd like to see you try and stop me. Here's to the _still_ unsolved mysteries of the trashed briefcase, the ventilated laptop, and the missing .22. Strong work, Con. Way to get her right where you want her."

Connor's eyes narrowed. "It wasn't the right time to ask. And don't be forgettin' the _still_ missing Cutlass."

_Couldn't if I tried_, Murphy thought, downing the final half of his beer in one long swallow. He burped and when Connor turned his face aside, Murphy slipped the pack of smokes from his brother's hand. Connor reached to snatch it back and Murphy body-checked him into the doorframe, dumping the half-dozen cigarettes onto the counter.

"Motherfucker." Connor elbowed him aside and scooped up most of them, but Murphy only needed one.

Prize in hand, he turned away and set a world record lighting up. Connor returned the other smokes to the pack and leaned against the counter. "You could have just asked, you know."

_Yeah fucking right._ Murphy tapped his ash into his empty beer can. "So, what's up with Leah?"

Connor watched him several seconds longer before he spoke. "She's got father issues," he said finally. "Apparently, the man lives right here in Boston, and she hasn't seen him face-to-face in seven years."

"Until this week. Remember outside Jake's, the morning they found Frankie? Chaffey asked about Leah, and Annie said she was meeting her dad for lunch."

Connor snapped his fingers. "And Beckman said that was _interesting_. How would he know?"

"The real question is—after seven years, what changed to make Leah want to see her da? Greenly was trying to tell me something about this earlier-did she tell you what he does for a living?"

Connor began playing with his lighter, flicking it open and closed. "He's a doctor. Wanted her to be a doctor too – sounds like that's where the trouble started."

"Well, isn't she the picture of modesty? He's a bit more than your average doc, Con. He's head of cardiac surgery at MGH."

Connor lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke up to the ceiling. "I should have called it—when she gets angry, her accent goes straight up Beacon Hill."

"I noticed. So, how's the blue blood feel about slummin' it with the likes of you?"

Connor took a long, long pull and Murphy realized he was struggling to hold back a smile.

"Jesus Christ, are you kidding me? And you still didn't get the truth out of her?"

"These things take time."

"Apparently not for you!" Murphy crushed the empty beer can in his hands and lobbed it the length of the kitchen to the trash bin, missing by half an inch. It bounced off with a clatter, throwing soupy gray splatters of beer and ash on the linoleum.

"Strong work," Connor said. "You're on fire tonight."

"It's like I can't lose. There's magic in these hands." Murphy heaved a sigh.

Connor held up a finger, then opened the box he'd brought home and tossed Murphy a white sponge. "Sorry for railin' you about the Cutlass," he said. "I know you tried. You got the plates, at least."

"A whopping three digits. You managed to get us a whole set of prints."

"Aye, then I managed to lose them."

Murphy wiped up the beer. "Yeah, I can't put a spin on that one for you. Is there bleach on this or something? Look at the white spots it's leaving on the floor."

Connor chuckled. "No bleach. Those are _clean_ spots, my brother."

Murphy looked at the sponge, then back at the floor. He wiped at an untouched tile, and the spot illuminated like he'd shined a flashlight on it. "Holy shit, I've barely touched it! What the hell's this thing made out of?"

"Near as I can tell – either the laughter of children, or the holy blood of Christ. It's what we used to clean Leah's door, and I'm here to tell you, I think those things could scrub the sin from a man's soul." He glanced upward and crossed himself.

Murphy finished cleaning the tile he'd started, a single, bright shining square off-center on the floor. He laid the sponge by the sink. "I have to ask, Con. What were you thinking washing the evidence off her door?"

"What was I going to do, cuff her sponge-wielding hands?"

"If necessary. You were supposed to be working her."

"I was. You know as well as I do, Murph. You have to give some to get some."

"Is that when the prints got lost-while you were gettin' some?"

Something dark flickered in Connor's eyes, disappearing as quickly as it came. A muted buzzing came from his pocket and he pulled out the phone.

"Ah, damn." Remembering, Murphy felt his pants for Annie's phone, though he surely would have noticed by now if it was still there. How many times would Beckman have called her back? His blood simmered at the thought. If it wasn't in Leah's apartment, it was probably in the LTD. Murphy rubbed his weary eyes again. It would wait until tomorrow.

"I think the battery's dying," Connor was saying, plugging their phone into the charger. "It keeps buzzing like this every couple of minutes."

"Let me see that." Murphy took the phone and as he suspected, there was a tiny envelope icon at the bottom of the screen. It was from Smecker. "You're such a fucking tool," he said, showing Connor the display.

THIS IS CALLED A TEXT MESSAGE. ITS WHAT U SEND WHEN U CANT FUCKING TALK. CUTLASS ON DOT AVE LONG GONE. MEET DUF IN AM W/ PAINT CAN

"If you worked for him, you'd be fired."

Connor's jaw set as he read the message. "I didn't think burner phones could-"

"I know. I'll show you how it works. You think you know where to find this paint can?"

Connor took a slow breath. "I'll find it," he said. "Leah mentioned pulling an extra shift-she shouldn't be around in the morning."

Murphy studied his brother, unable to demand Connor's whole story without spotlighting again the missing pieces of his own. "We'll have to be up at the crack," he said finally. "I still want to hit a store before the funeral-and don't start with me. I'm not showing up graveside in a fucking T-shirt."

Connor raised an eyebrow. "No plans to wake sleeping beauty?"

"She's in good hands. My plan is to be across town when she comes to."


	22. Prints

**[Chapter 22: Prints]**

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.

.

Murphy awoke to a sun-filled room in a panic. Damn it! How had he managed to sleep through the alarm? He yanked on his only pair of black pants and hopped down the hall to check the time on the stove.

Fuck!

They were out of beer again, which was fine since there was no time for breakfast anyway. No time for a shower either. He splashed some water on his face and brushed his teeth, running a hand over the rough stubble on his jaw. God, funerals sucked enough already, even when he didn't show up looking like a scumbag.

Connor was showered and dressed, watching the morning news in Spanish.

"Why the hell didn't you wake me?" Murphy asked, snatching his jacket from over the couch.

Connor got up, crossing the room to open the curtains. "I tried," he said. "You were out like…well, like you were the last two times you had a concussion. Did you hit your head _again_?"

Murphy winced at the light. Sunglasses, sunglasses, sunglasses…the apartment wasn't that big; how did everything he owned go missing?

"It won't take us but a minute to pick up that spray paint can," Connor said, turning off the TV.

"We have to call Duffy."

"I'm way ahead of you. Duffy's meeting us there and he'll take it straight to the station. And your shades are in your coat pocket."

* * *

Connor crept ahead of Murphy through the bushes beneath Leah's staircase. The sky hadn't been light for long, but long enough that they couldn't tell whether anyone was awake in Leah's apartment.

"It's your standard size spray can." Connor said, his voice hushed. "It'll be old, though, and starting to rust, with a bit of red paint dried around the nozzle."

"White label?"

"Aye, and the cap's missing, so keep your eyes open for that as well."

They split up, scouring the dirt and plants as quickly and covertly as possible. In less than five minutes, Murphy had found two plastic bottle caps, a protein bar wrapper and a pink popped balloon, but no spray paint can.

"Tell me again how this happened," he said, meeting up with Connor next to some scraggly bushes that were doing little to hide a rusted shopping cart filled with a bulging black trash bag. Murphy stepped around it to where Connor was squatting, braced on his fingertips, trying hard not to muddy his pants.

The tiniest tap of his boot would send Connor face-down into the muck. Murphy's foot rose slowly and silently. In his pocket, the cell phone buzzed. Sighing, he lowered his foot and checked the text message.

"Duffy's on his way."

Connor grunted. "Grand."

"For Christ's sake, Connor, I can't understand how you lost the thing right after you found it."

Connor didn't look up. "It was an accident. It fell off the railing."

"The wind was howling like a fucking banshee last night. You set it on a half-inch-wide hand rail?"

"I admit it wasn't my wisest decision."

"I admit I'm surprised you could find your way back to this parking lot."

"You're not helping, Murph."

"Well, what are you doing crawling on your knees thirty yards from the balcony? Unless it sprouted wings, it wouldn't be anywhere near here!"

Connor sighed, rocking back on his heels and dusting his hands. "All right. To be perfectly honest, I think Leah may have chucked it over here when I wasn't looking."

"Aha." That sounded more like the Leah he knew. Or had learned about from unsubstantiated rumor.

"She looks like she's got a pretty good arm, right?" Connor asked.

"You tell me."

"I wasn't looking at her arms."

Murphy smiled.

"Oh, shut it. That's not what I meant."

A black sedan entered the lot and circled their direction, the strains of _Freebird_ cranked up loud enough through the open windows to reach Murphy's ears and make him drop to a crouch beside Connor even before he got a clear look at the driver behind the wheel.

"What are you doing?" Connor asked.

"Keep it down," Murphy hissed, having to look twice before he was sure- "It's Jake."

"In a _Prius_?"

Murphy pointed across the lot, to Leah's apartment door, which had opened. Its location on the second floor gave them a perfect view of Annie descending the stairs, last night's black button-up shirt tucked into a sleek black skirt she must have borrowed from Leah, folded-up jeans tucked under her arm.

The funeral. She didn't have her car here, and it was likely she'd accompany her uncle to the service. But why was Leah still there, and not at work? They scooted to the other side of the shopping cart for extra cover as Annie's heels clicked closer to the idling car.

There was a shuffling on the sidewalk behind them. "Get away from that!" a gruff voice ordered. It was the current owner of the shopping cart; the shaggy beard, filthy jacket and fingerless gloves left little doubt.

Connor swore, losing his balance and dropping a knee in the mud. Murphy retreated as far as possible from the cart while maintaining his crouch. "Sorry!" he whispered, cringing when he heard Annie's heels stop clicking. "We'll be gone in two shakes, just give us a sec."

The old man's face contorted. "It's mine, you hear me? Clear out or I'll-"

A ten-dollar bill from Connor's outstretched hand caught his eye, shutting him up long enough for Jake to drive away.

The old man snatched it, yanking the cart onto the sidewalk and rattling away, allowing Murphy and Connor to finally stand up—and come face-to-face with Leah, barefoot in gray sweats, hair tucked under a Sox cap, arms crossed tightly, razor-sharp gaze cutting over the two of them and settling on his brother.

"Morning, Connor," she said, her cheerful tone set on edge. "Didn't expect to see you again so soon. Don't you know you're supposed to wait two days? Well, that's for a phone call. I'm not sure what the rule is for scavenging through a girl's landscaping."

"Leah, it's not what it looks like," Connor said. His palms had risen in instinctual surrender, as if she'd pulled the missing silver pistol on him. Murphy slapped down the closest hand and Connor jumped guiltily.

"Really?" she asked. "Because it looks like you're sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

"We're only trying to help," Connor said calmly, "there's no reason to get upset."

"Why would I be upset? I let a man into my home, let him…" Her eyes darted to Murphy, then back to Connor. "I should have trusted my instincts and called you a cab."

"Hey, you're the one that asked me for a ride," Connor reminded her. That earned him a nostril flare and his hands quickly rose again. "But I'm sorry—you're right. It wasn't my place."

And Murphy's place was miles away from this conversation. He inched in the direction of the parking lot.

She moved to block his way. "Find anything?" she asked him.

"Not a thing."

"I don't believe you. Show me your pockets."

Murphy smiled. "I see what you were talking about, Con."

Leah's glare narrowed on Connor. Her mouth opened, then closed without comment.

"You know, I was beginning to hope you'd beaten us to it," Connor told her, "but I guess you'd have to dig your head out of the sand first."

"Empty your pockets," she repeated, "or I'm calling the cops."

"Come on, love," Connor said, his voice gentle again, "We all know you won't do that."

Leah's eyebrows nearly sprung off her face.

Murphy sighed. So Connor _could_ speak the truth-just not in conjunction with his brain.

"I'll tell you what I will do," Leah said, her words quiet but articulate. She glanced around the street beside them. "I'll scream 'rape' and we'll see how many real heroes are walking the streets this morning."

Murphy weighed likelihood of the threat as a familiar rattling approached from behind. "Look, here's one now," Leah said, looking past Murphy and flashing her dimpled smile. "'Morning, Gerard."

Gerard grunted and kept moving, but then saw Murphy and Connor were still there, and he straightened. "_Fossette_," he rasped, "You okay?"

She looked at Connor and there was something wild in her eyes; she _would_ do it. She might even enjoy it. Not that they couldn't take Gerard, per se, although the faded shoulder bars on his vintage officer's jacket suggested he may have once been able to handle himself; but then there was the jogger on the corner, the couple walking to their car, the Fed Ex man across the street...

Connor turned his eyes to Murphy and ended the debate.

His face blank save for one arched brow, Connor opened his peacoat and presented Leah with his wallet, lighter, smokes, and car keys.

Gerard snuffed and continued down the street, mumbling to himself.

Murphy emptied his pockets. Smecker ought to be recruiting this woman, not pawning her off to be charmed by felons.

"Satisfied?" Connor asked, returning all but the car keys to his pockets.

"Do I look satisfied?"

Connor watched her for a moment, and then tossed Murphy the keys. "Go on," he said. "I'll just be a minute."

* * *

"No, you won't," Leah told him, turning on her heel and stalking back to her apartment.

Connor jockeyed awkwardly over the bushes. "Leah, wait."

"Stay away from me, Connor."

"Would you just listen?"

She kept walking, and he jogged to catch up with her.

"I wasn't going to hand it over without your okay."

She reached the staircase and began to climb.

"Yes, we were looking for the can," he said, following her up. "But if we found it, we were going to talk to you first…"

She paused before reaching the top, her attention down on the street, where Murphy had the LTD crawling along at about five miles per hour.

A black Crown Vic sporting a trio of stubby antennae was cruising the opposite direction. As the cars neared each other, Murphy's arm edged out the window to flag the other driver. The Crown Vic stopped, then reversed until their windows aligned.

Connor began to sweat.

"That's an unmarked car," Leah whispered, sounding sick. "Someone your brother knows. Someone you were expecting." She turned on Connor, face ashen. "You just said you were going to talk to me first. Are you even _capable_ of telling the truth?"

It was torture to look her in the eye. "Leah. I'm only trying to help."

"Well, stop trying, because you're really horrible at it! Who you did call?"

"Someone I trust," he said, reluctant now to mention Duffy's name. "Someone you should trust as well, who'll keep it miles away from Beckman."

She squeezed her temples, almost laughing. "You just don't get it. Beckman is the least of my problems."

Connor dipped his head, trying to meet her eyes. "Then what is the problem?" He pulled her hand away from her face. "_Who_ is the problem?"

Touching her was a mistake; she yanked her hand away furiously. "I don't _know_ who, that's the whole goddamn point! It could be anyone, it could be everyone…"

The cars below them separated, continuing on their respective ways. The Crown Vic drew closer below them, and she retreated into the apartment.

He put a hand to the door before she could close it.

"Connor, please. Just go."

"Leah, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have lied to you. I understand if you don't want to talk to me." Through the gap in the door, her expression didn't change.

_All right_, he thought, placing his other hand on the jamb, _here goes nothing_. "I wasn't lying when I said I care about you."

Her eyes closed, and she shook her head the way his mother did whenever he and Murphy had pressed their luck beyond the limit.

He took a quick breath. "You can believe me or not—

"Not."

"—but I know a bit about trouble, and I know you're in deep—maybe too deep to get out on your own."

She blew out a sigh. "Spare me. I should never have talked to you last night. I'd take back half of it if I could."

He ignored the sting, knowing it was masking one hell of a pressure point. "Isn't there anyone you trust?" he asked.

"Not with a listed phone number."

The comment hung in the air, and her eyes flitted away, to the light switch, the floor, the doorknob.

His heartbeat quickened; his mouth sealed shut, too afraid of what she meant to risk clarifying.

If she wouldn't trust Connor MacManus, what about the nameless man in the mask? That man had fought her enemy off before. And she didn't have to worry about entangling him in the mess—he was already in deeper than she was. A string of possibilities entered his mind before he could stop them, before he could ream himself for contemplating anything so cocky and reckless.

Her gaze had settled on his hand, still braced on her door. The angle of his arm had pulled his coat sleeve back a few inches, exposing the ragged white scar that encircled his wrist—a thing he wouldn't have thought twice about—until her index finger lifted to touch it.

He stood frozen as her fingertip slowly traced the line, barely making contact. She was frowning.

"Yours will be prettier," he heard himself say, and then her hand was in his and he'd tilted her wrist to examine the injury he hadn't been able to prevent. Her cuts were still healing – raw, red scar showing where the brown scab had already come off. "You'll be getting the looks for while, though—people wondering if you did it to yourself."

"Do you tell them the truth?" She shifted, but left her hand in his.

"I let them think what they want." His thumb brushed lightly across her open palm, and she shivered, pulling away.

He shoved his burning hands in his pockets. "People don't know what to do with you when they think you're unstable," he said. "In a way, it gives you an edge."

"I imagine people often don't know what to do with you. Thankfully, I don't have that problem."

"Thankfully."

"Good-bye, Connor."

"Leah. Take care of yourself."

A rumbling carried up from the lot below. _Don't honk_, he begged Murphy silently as he headed down the stairs. He opened the passenger door and looked up to the balcony one last time. She was still in the doorway, watching, when a dozen aluminum cans clattered out of the car onto his feet.

Surprise, confusion, and accusation took milliseconds to register on her face. "Hey!" she shouted, starting down the stairs.

Murphy swore, yanking upright the trash bag that filled the floor space under the dash. Connor jumped in, tucking his knees up, slamming the door, and Murphy peeled out of the lot.

"Christ, man! You couldn't stick this shit in the trunk?"

"You'd have a harder time digging through it en route if I had," Murphy said. "And good luck, because the legionnaire couldn't recall his last meal, much less what sort of cans he picked up this morning."

Connor reminded himself forcibly of the bigger picture. "My brother, you're a fucking genius." He dug a pair of latex gloves from his duffel in the back. "Any coin left for the shirt and tie?"

Murphy shrugged. "It's not like I remember how to tie one anyway."

Connor scoped out his brother's black tee shirt, which was worn a bit thin but didn't seem to have any obvious holes. "She always liked your pea coat. Keep it buttoned and she'll never be the wiser."

"The tie wasn't for Annie."

"Right, because Jake gives a shit. Where is your coat?"

"The coat was the deal-breaker. A necessary sacrifice to the greater fucking good."

"Listen to you," Connor mused. He paused in the can search, peeling off a glove to light his brother a cigarette. "Remind me to buy you a drink later."

Murphy rolled his window down. "A drink, a pea coat, a nine-millimeter…"

"A helmet…"

Murphy sighed, pressing a hand against his forehead. "How about a spray paint can covered in scumbag fingerprints?"

"That I can do." It didn't look promising though, in the sea of grit and sticky aluminum. He was about to start tossing reject cans to the floor in the back when a familiar red-spotted nozzle caught his eye.

"Halle-fucking-lujah!"

Murphy swerved to stay in the lane. "Finally," he breathed. "Now we just gotta pray he's in the system."

"I should call Duffy back."

"No need." Murphy gunned it through a yellow light, bouncing them hard on the dip, grimacing when the rear bumper clattered loudly. "He's on his way to St. Leonard's to scope Buffone's crowd."

"The funeral Masses are back-to-back?"

"Like a fucking assembly line—and they're both being sealed up over at St. Michael. Apparently little Frankie had some marinara in his veins."

The detail he didn't need to mention: that both the church in the North End and the traditionally Italian cemetery and mausoleum ten miles south in Roslindale were the same ones they'd been unable to attend for Rocco.

"Perfect," Connor said. "You didn't give up your mask and gloves with the coat, did you?"

"Not a chance," Murphy said, tipping his head toward the duffel bag on back seat. "They're with the armory. If we get us a customer today, we're open for business."

.

* * *

**A/N:** _Thanks for your patience, and I hope everyone had a great St. Patty's!_


	23. North End

**[Chapter 23: North End]**

.

.

Frankie's casket arrived, was sprinkled and blessed and then taken inside. Connor and Murphy slipped in a few paces after, taking seats in the back pew. The priest opened with the familiar prayer. Murphy scanned the sanctuary full of bowed heads, finally spotting Jake's bald dome beyond a massive white column, up front next to a women he assumed to be Frankie's mother. Halfway up the opposite side, with the stained glass filtered sunlight reflecting off his hardware, Zeke had secured an aisle seat. Annie sat next to him, and unlike most of the other women who wore black lace veils, her dark hair was uncovered, and despite the prayer her eyes lifted continuously to the ornate paintings lining the cathedral walls and ceiling.

Murphy glanced behind him, to the back corners of the church and found more than one set of eyes looking back at him: Duffy and Beckman one corner, and two sunglasses-and-skinny-tie-wearing men in dark suits that could have walked right out of _Reservoir Dogs _in the other.

The personal speeches were mercifully short, but when Frankie's aunts began wailing, Murphy made for the exit. Connor followed, and they waited there on the sidewalk with the Saturday morning traffic driving by until the final chorus of the farewell song carried through the high windows of the church.

The priest would be finishing the incense, and any moment the doors would open and the mourners would file out to form the long, slow procession to take Frankie Hayes down to St. Michael's.

* * *

Frankie's mourners spilled out onto the sidewalk. Murphy and Connor made sure Duffy saw them, then meandered halfway up the block to wait for him. At last, the detective left Beckman talking with Frankie's mom, and strolled over. "Any luck?" he asked quietly.

Connor pulled the brown bag from his peacoat and handed it to him.

"Handle it with care," Murphy said, "We burned a bridge for this one."

Duffy frowned. "That was a pretty important bridge. Be good if you could salvage it."

"It wasn't intentional, Tom." Connor rubbed his eyebrow. "You know, she's not too fond of you, either."

Duffy glanced away at a stooped old woman hobbling in their direction. He tried to tuck the bag into his suit jacket pocket, but the can was too big to fit. "You couldn't make this more conspicuous?"

The old woman shuffled by, leaning on her cane and eyeing Duffy and the bag knowingly. Duffy closed his eyes.

Murphy smiled. "Humble yourself in the sight of the Lord, Tom. How long until you can get us a name?"

"Once I get to the station, pull the prints, run them through…It should be soon enough for you to feel out the dry eyes at St. Michael's. Don't forget Dolly's there to help you out, and he's got a good handle on this North End crowd."

On the church steps, Jake had a protective hold on Regina while Beckman spoke to her. Reluctantly, Jake passed her off to her family and allowed Beckman to pull him aside. Nearby, several tat shop friends had joined Annie and Zeke, who had his black shirt-sleeves rolled up to the elbow, exposing full-sleeve tattoos on both arms. Other guests stole curious glances at the tattoo-and-piercing crowd, and a few stared openly. Annie looked up and caught Murphy's eye and he realized he'd been staring, too.

"Detective Duche, twelve-o'clock," Connor warned. Beckman was making his way towards them, dressed like a sporty secret-service agent in his orange-tinted Oakleys.

"Damn," Duffy said, quickly handing the paper bag to Murphy. "You guys in the Parcel Seven garage? I'm the black Volvo, second floor. Meet me in ten." He turned to intercept the other detective.

Zeke and Annie separated from the throng, Zeke leading the way towards Connor and Murphy and the parking garage.

"Zeke, my man," Connor said, falling into step with him, "How are you guys holding up?"

Annie didn't greet Murphy, though she did glance his direction, taking in the untucked t-shirt, the stubble on his jaw, the paper liquor-store bag in his hand.

He forced himself to stand up straight. "What?"

"I didn't say anything."

Neither of them said anything after that. They followed Connor and Zeke into the garage. Inside the air was much cooler and Annie hugged herself, her clicking heels picking up speed on the concrete. He let her pass before him between two parked cars. Her hair fell in waves, in that just-woke-up way, but with the skirt and heels, she looked far better than she deserved to.

What she deserved was a great-grandmother of a hangover. Surely there was _some_ justice in the world that he himself didn't have to administer. The next step Annie took she turned her ankle, caught herself on the nearest car, and set off its alarm.

Murphy smiled. _Aequitas._

Annie hurried on, but slowed when she came up on the LTD. She touched a finger to the busted taillight, and Murphy could almost feel her contemplating whether the previous night had all been a bad dream. She glanced behind, her shaded eyes falling on him again.

She'd forgotten nothing.

He and Connor waited until the Prius exited before pulling alongside Duffy's car.

Safely alone now, Duffy came and took the can, promising to call as soon as he had the results.

"Now, if you do find him," he added, "you're not going to, you know…"

"Send him to the great confessional in the sky?"

"I'm not trying to be a dick here, but the last time I gave you a name-" He glanced meaningfully at the hearse and the trail of black cars.

Connor sighed. "For the hundredth time, what happened to Frankie _wasn't us_."

Duffy's palms went up. "It's my job to ask."

"We'll leave him alive," Connor said. "Scout's fucking honor. We'll be waiting by the phone. Thanks, Tom."

* * *

By the time they'd joined the funeral procession, it was impossible to tell which cars were part of it, and which were unlucky outsiders stuck in the congestion. After the first block it was clear the driver they were following had one foot on the gas and one on the brake, with no distinction between the two.

The LTD rocked forward and back like soup sloshing in a bowl. It was a good thing he hadn't been able to drink last night.

The memory of Annie hunched over by the train tracks played in his mind, and he wondered how she was faring, further up the line. It couldn't be good. And the drive would be nothing compared to the cemetery.

Murphy reached for Connor's cigarettes, bracing a hand on the dash when Connor hit the brakes suddenly.

"I don't know why they call it a fucking _procession_ – we've barely _proceeded_ out of the North End. It's gonna be another bloody hour before we get to Rozzie."

The pack was empty. Murphy crushed it in his fist and tossed it at Connor. "Pit stop."

"You need to get a handle on the hang-ups, man."

"Give me a fucking break. It's not about that—and I don't care whether you believe me, so don't bother startin'. We've been dancin' around this trip for three fucking months, Con. It's going to be a long damn day for both of us if you don't pull over and find a packie."

Connor turned on his blinker.

* * *

Two narrow streets up, Murphy spotted a package store. The curb was lined with cars, so Connor dropped Murphy at the door. "Make it snappy," he said.

The place was busy; the check-out line was six-deep, and the woman at the counter scowled at Murphy when he added himself to the end of the line, behind a greasy-haired man reeking of cooking oil and curry. The man wore an ill-fitting suit, as did two other men ahead of him in line. A middle-aged couple and a teenaged girl also seemed overdressed for a Saturday morning. Perhaps he and Connor weren't alone in their funeral procession escape.

The liquor store's glass door continued to swing open as he waited, the small aisles growing crowded. When the line in front of him shuffled forward a step, he stayed where he was, trying to put some breathable air between himself and the curry man. He heard a sigh and caught the faintest scent of peaches. He turned. There was Annie in line behind him, unsmiling, eyes hidden behind dark aviator sunglasses.

"Hey," he said.

She was buying water and her gaze was fixed on the label. "Hey." Something rattled when she shifted her weight and he saw she had Advil in her other hand.

There was a word for what he was feeling, this sliver of wicked enjoyment—what was it? A German word. In any case, he would probably go to hell for it. "You're looking delightful this morning, Ann. How are you feeling?"

She straightened. "Excellent. And you?"

With a stab of guilt he remembered her cradled ribs, the consequence of his bumper cars stunt. Damn, that's probably what she needed the painkillers for.

The line shuffled again and he was obliged to move.

Annie cleared her throat. "Jake was glad to see you there today."

"Day's not over yet."

"I know." She took a breath. "Listen, when we get to St. Michael's, I was hoping you could tell me where-"

"It's the same one. Same mausoleum as Frankie and all the others. I heard Roc's right across from the big bastard himself."

She glanced up at him. "You heard? You mean you haven't…"

Murphy sucked in a breath and gauged the line again, then the distance to the exit. Behind Annie, a large Italian woman joined the line and by the time Murphy realized she was staring back at him, it was already too late.

The woman's hand pressed over her heart and Murphy felt his feet carry him over to her, felt himself get squeezed into an embrace, the bottle of wine she was carrying poking into his back.

"Mama Del," he said. "It's been a while. You look wonderful."

"Oh, Murphy, Murphy." Mama Del clung to him. "It's good to see you, it's good for my heart." She released him, looking him up and down, her eyes watery. "How've you been, honey? Where's Connor?"

"Circling the block," Murphy said. Annie was watching them indirectly, biting her lip. "Here's another face you may remember, though."

He heard Annie suck in a breath. "Hi, Mama Del."

Mama Del's brow furrowed until Annie removed her sunglasses. Her eyes were red, her dark eyeliner smudged. Both of the older woman's hands pressed to her chest. "Why—Annie? Look at you. What are you doing here, dear?"

Annie's smile wobbled. "I just moved back. I've been meaning to come by, but I haven't really gotten the chance-"

"By the Saints in heaven, I'd never have called this one! Truthfully, after the state you left us in, I…" Murphy's necked burned and he looked away to the register. The line hadn't moved and now the cashier was calling for a price check. Mama Del glanced at him, then patted Annie's arm. "Well, if others can move past it, then I certainly can too. I have, after all, come through a great many trials – it's not easy to bear, but I do, I do."

Murphy willed the line to move with all that was in him.

Annie fumbled with her sunglasses, finally slipping them back on. "Mama Del," she said quietly, "I am so, so sorry about Rocco. Today must be very hard for you."

Mama Del's lips curled downward and for a terrible moment Murphy thought she would cry. But then she gave Annie a squeeze. Over Mama Del's shoulder, Annie's face screwed up into a pained wince, reminding Murphy again of the injury he'd caused her. Another stab of guilt. _Stab. Stab. Stab, stab, stab._

"It is, it is," Mama Del was saying. "But I manage, you know. A good deal better than some." She lowered the merlot slightly. "Of course, a glass now and then helps to take the edge off, but it's not like..." She gave a forced chuckle. "Not like some _others_."

She looked meaningfully at the man at the front of the line, a stocky man with a neck bulging over the top of his collar. The man finished paying and gave Mama Del a nod and Annie a second glance as he exited.

Annie looked at Murphy questioningly.

Murphy's shrug was all the encouragement Mama Del needed. "Now, I've never been one to gossip," she said in a stage whisper, "but since it would be rude not to explain..." She pulled them closer, into a triangular huddle. Annie's shoulder brushed Murphy's arm, and she shifted her weight to the other foot.

"That was Yvonne Buffone's brother. Yvonne likes raspberry vodka in her morning orange juice, but after what happened to Leo last weekend, well...I hear what she's really taking they don't sell at retail." She added cryptically, "The family takes care of her."

Murphy put a hand on her shoulder, gently directing her away from any eavesdroppers. "The Buffone family?" he asked quietly.

Mama Del shook her head. "Buffone by marriage. She's Yakavetta by blood."

Murphy bristled. Annie glanced at him, and he kept his expression neutral. "I thought they were-"

"The _Mancinis _take care of her now," Mama Del told her. "Certain enterprises have passed to them, and so has the…housekeeping."

Annie's eyebrows rose above her sunglasses and Mama Del smiled. "Not everyone's so lucky," she said, jerking her head slightly at the curry man in front of them, who was handing the clerk half a dozen bottles of pills and a Red Bull. She gathered Annie close and pulled Murphy down to whisper, "That's Carla Vigoda's son, still lives at home with her, drives her down to Club Italia twice a week to blow his paycheck on Bingo."

"Connections?" Murphy kept his voice politely disinterested.

"None that matter anymore."

"So the Mancinis pick and choose their housekeeping," Annie said, her voice low but not low enough. "Do you think that goes for all the old business? Including anything…unfinished?"

Mama Del lifted her round chin. "The Saints, you mean."

Murphy glanced up sharply. The other customers weren't quite staring, but he noticed the way eyes were unfocused, directed away, while ears were tuned precisely in their direction. The curry man in front of them was so seemingly preoccupied with the display rack of energy bars that the clerk had to get his attention.

Murphy put his arm around the older woman and spoke into her ear. "Mama Del, you'd better be careful. That clever mouth of yours might get you into trouble someday."

Mama Del looked up at him, the hard lines deepening around her eyes. "That's what I used to tell my David. I guess it doesn't pay to be right." Murphy let his arm slide from her shoulders. Mama Del turned to Annie. "No, honey. I would say Joseph's unfinished business is _exactly_ as he left it—and I don't know that anyone's ever going to see it through."

Perhaps she didn't intend such a direct accusation, but it was there all the same. Added to Annie's silence, it sharpened and burned, magnifying and exposing him like a bug under a glass.

"You've got to hang in there, Mama," he heard himself say. "I'm sure the cops are just waiting until they have a solid case."

"They don't even have any _suspects_, Murphy," Annie said.

The frown line between Mama Del's brows deepened, and she looked at him with the exact same expression Rocco used to whenever Murphy and Connor would start speaking in another language: a combination of weariness and confusion that he used to find amusing. Today it nearly dropped him to his knees. He swallowed, his throat beginning to tighten.

"That's what I've been afraid of," Mama Del said quietly. "I was hoping you and Connor might know more."

His pulse pounded in his ears, and he knew what was happening even as he fought not let it. He swallowed again, shaking his head no. "I'm sorry."

He plucked an energy bar from the rack, pretending at first and then forcing himself to make sense of the small type. _Soy protein isolate, hydrolyzed whey protein concentrate, crystalline fructose…_

"Hel-lo," the clerk called, "can I help who's next? Oh, hey, Mrs. Della Rocco."

Murphy gestured for her to go first.

She paid for the Merlot, then smiled at Murphy, the softness returning to her eyes. "Come and see me sometime, won't you? Bring your brother."

She seemed to include Annie in her request, but there wasn't a kind way to clarify their relationship. Or lack thereof.

"Couldn't stop him if I tried," he told Mama Del, letting her plant another kiss on his cheek.

Then she kissed Annie and made her promise to find her later at St. Michael's. When Mama Del finally left them alone, Annie's fell on him. He knew she expected him to tag along at the cemetery, the equivalent of throwing himself bodily onto a live grenade.

He gave her a vague smile and gestured for her to go ahead of him. She passed the clerk her items then froze, her hand touching her shoulder. "I don't have my purse. Damn it-I'm sorry," she said to the clerk. "I'll be right back."

She turned and planted her face in Murphy's chest.

"I've got it," he said, already handing the money to the clerk.

"No, you don't. I'm sure Jake has-"

"I've _got_ it." He pushed the bagged items into her hands.

"But-"

He headed for the door, unable to recall the last time he'd needed a smoke so damn badly-then stopped short when he realized he'd forgotten to buy the smokes he'd come for in the first place. "Fuck."

With a sigh, he returned to the register.

When he made it back outside, the LTD was idling at the curb, Connor was leaning against the door, and Zeke was perched on the trunk. Annie scowled at them with a hand on her hip.

"Hilarious," she said to them, "It's good to know I'm not the only one who cares."

"Con." Murphy raised his eyebrows meaningfully. _Did Duffy call?_

Connor nodded, briefly flashing a scrap of paper in his hand.

"Oh, I've got one more," Zeke said to Annie, "a good one. It'll change the way you think about the Bruins."

"Save it, Zeke."

Connor explained, "Nancy Drew here was just asking Zeke and me if we've heard any hot tips about Boston's Most Wanted."

"Christ, Ann," Murphy muttered, struggling to light up with shaking hands. "Will you give it a rest while you're graveside? Let the mothers bury their sons before you go plowing over their memories."

"Oh my God, I was talking to _Connor _and_ Zeke_."

"And Mama Del…"

Annie stiffened. "_Mama Del_ had more to say than I did. You do know that the entire city talks about these psychos, right? It's not just me, and my crazy, wild notions about murderers belonging in prison. Other people, _normal_ people are actually trying to make it happen. Today I might even-"

Connor juggled the car keys. "All right, kids. The black parade's moving on without us."

Annie glanced up the street toward the Prius, running a hand through her hair. "You didn't see my purse in your car, did you?"

Murphy ignored Zeke's curious look, tapping his ash in the combination garbage can-ash tray. "Can't say I did."

"Well, would you mind _looking_?"

"It isn't there," Connor told her. "I make it a point to check the backseat for women's belongings after Murph uses the car."

Annie rolled her eyes. "I'd make it a point to check for Bondo."

Connor's smirk turned sour. "It'd be funny it if it wasn't true."

"Scars add character," Murphy said, blowing a smoke ring that Connor karate-chopped.

Annie cupped her hands around her eyes and peered in the back window. "It's right there under the seat," she said, opening the door. "Good God, you _both_ need glasses."

She retrieved the purse and offered Murphy a handful of bills. "Here. I don't want to owe you."

He ignored the money. "You _don't owe me_," he said around the cigarette. "Accept it and move on."

"Fine," she said, stuffing it back in her purse. "It's just that I recently witnessed what happened to the last person who owed you money."

"Oh, for the love of Christ."

"It's a shame," she said, gazing pityingly at the LTD. "They were both such fine automobiles."

Zeke slid down off the trunk and there was a loud clang. "Damn," he said, "You guys didn't let Annie drive this, did you?"

"Ha. Ha," Annie said. "Murphy was driving, though I use the term loosely."

Zeke leaned over and gingerly touched the bumper, which was hanging a few inches lower than usual. What sounded like a handful of pebbles fell from his pocket and tinked onto the concrete.

"You weren't behind the wheel," Murphy told Annie as she knelt to help Zeke pick up what he dropped. "That doesn't mean you're innocent."

Zeke scoured the sidewalk. Annie picked up a single pebble and held it close, steadying herself against the car with one hand. She grew very still. The thing flashed blue in the sunlight and Murphy's stomach went into freefall when he realized what she held was no pebble at all. It was broken glass. Her eyes lifted to Murphy just as Connor stepped between them.

"My thoughts exactly," Connor said, slapping Murphy hard on the back. "And Annie, that shirt's even lovelier this morning than it was last night." He offered Annie a hand to help her up.

"I'm so glad you think so, Connor. Now my life is complete." Annie let his hand float there while she continued to examine the glass. "Zeke, what is this?"

"It's for Frankie. It's got…sentimental value." He smiled a little sheepishly and glanced around. "I told you about Papa Smurf, right? I'm going to put it with him in the casket."

"But it was part of the crime scene." Annie ran her finger along the jagged edges. "They would have collected this for evidence—how did you get it?"

"Well luckily, CSI Southie's not exactly _CSI: New York_. It was in the couch cushions." Zeke gave a small laugh. "Don't worry, Annie, they've got a hundred other pieces. That punk Frankie smashed it on had a really hard head."

"Hmm. I'll bet." She stood without assistance. Connor shoved his hands in his pockets.

"C'mon, Jake's waiting. See you over there, guys." Zeke started down the street to the Prius, snaking through the cars. Murphy's mind swarmed with a dozen explanations. Annie cracked open her vitamin water, asking nothing, but giving Murphy a long look before she turned to go.

"Drink up, Ann," Connor called after her. "Vitamin B's grand for a hang-over!" They stood side by side, watching her catch a heel in the pavement as she stalked away.

The corners of Murphy's mouth tightened.

"_Schadenfreude, _Murph_. _Might be a sin."

"_That's_ the word. Damn, I can't believe you got that before me."

"Don't give the concussion all the credit." He handed the folded slip of paper to Murphy. "Duffy says we're looking for a Bobby Vigoda. One of Mancini's long-time messenger boys, booked twice for connection with burglaries, did some cell time for-"

"Wait, Vigoda? Bobby _Vigoda_?" Murphy stared at the scrawled name, his heart skipping.

"Do we know him?"

"Shit." Murphy darted to the edge of the street and spun a circle, shielding his eyes from the sun. "Shit! I just stood next to him for fifteen fucking minutes!"

"Here?"

"YES! That's him…there." He pointed with two fingers pinching his cigarette, his other hand squeezing so tightly into a fist his knuckles popped. "That's the curry-stinkin', graffiti-sprayin' motherfucker in that goddamn worthless piece of shit fucking smashed-up ugly-ass beater."

"I don't care if we have to drive him off a bridge," Connor said, already halfway behind the wheel. "The fucker's going down this time."

Reversing out of the space before Murphy's door was shut, Connor pulled onto the road riding the bumper of the car ahead of them, then squeezed into the opposite lane to pass. Murphy's fingers dug into the armrest as he strained to keep the beater in site. They were four cars away, now three. Murphy could see the beater's damaged front end as it slowed into a turn.

"Get up there, man. Don't let him get away."

"Traffic's moving a half-mile an hour, jackass, where's he going to go? Besides, that's Jake in front of us. How many red flags do you want to raise today?"

Murphy sighed through flared nostrils, knowing Connor was right when through the back window of the Prius he saw Zeke turn around and give them an odd look. Murphy could see Jake's head tilting up periodically, watching them in the rearview mirror.

"Fuck. Annie's going to know something's up."

"If she doesn't already."

The Cutlass leaned slowly into a turn, Bobby Vigoda clearly not having a clue he was being tailed. The Prius followed, merging into the right lane to enter the expressway that would take them south to Roslindale.

"Bobby Vigoda's going to the church, for Leo's service," Murphy realized. "We'll have to skip out on Frankie's if we're going to follow him."

They came up alongside the Prius, which had slowed with the exit-lane traffic. "We have to, Murph."

"I know. It's fine." Murphy took a last look at the Prius, and caught Annie's face at the window, her brows puzzling at him at the cars separated. Somewhere deep within was the feeling he'd dodged a bullet, and beneath it, a heavy awareness of leaving other targets unprotected.

The beater stopped for a red light and Connor rolled up right behind.

"Don't spook him," Murphy said. "He might recognize the car."

Connor inched forward, squinting. "Three-five-J-X-P-seven. Not that he's getting away _this_ time, but just in case—why don't you write it down."

"Why? We already have his address, right? He still lives with his ma."

"How do you know that?"

Murphy shook his head. "Mama Del."

Connor pinched the bridge of his nose. "I swear, if it comes down to taking out somebody's mother…why can't these fuckers ever live alone?"

Murphy sent Smecker a text asking if he'd be at Leo's service, and received a confirmation almost immediately. "Perfect," he said. "Smecker, Greenly, and Dolly can help us keep an eye on him so no one has to stay too close for too long. We can see who Vigoda talks to, and make our move after he leaves the cemetery."

Leo Buffone's service was already started when they got back to the church, and Vigoda lumbered inside just as the doors were closing. Again, they took seats in the back row.

The wailing was far worse this time around. The bullshit speeches about the "tragic" passing sickened him to his very core. At last the pallbearers hauled Buffone to his hearse.

Connor spoke quietly in his ear. "Isn't that Mr. White and Mr. Pink from earlier?"

The two men with the skinny ties he'd seen at Frankie's service began to pass in and out of the church, gathering the floral arrangements and loading them into the trunk of a black Cadillac. Murphy couldn't help but wonder what the trunk was normally used for.

They were still waiting for Bobby to emerge when the men went back in, and this time brought out a massive red and purple floral wreath attached to an easel. They had to walk carefully down the steps, giving Murphy a clearer view of their faces. There was something familiar about them. Were they Yakavetta's old crew, the wannabe goodfellas Roc used to deal with? The guys who'd laughed at his jokes and called him their Funny Man, then snickered behind his back while Papa Joe sold him out.

The goodfellas managed to get both easel and wreath into the car, then just before he closed the trunk, the smaller one glanced at Murphy and his thick brows lowered. He said something to his companion and they both turned for a second look.

Murphy stared right back at them, hot now even in the chilly breeze, twirling his cigarette between his finger and thumb. _Aye, you know me_. _That was my friend you fucked over. _

"Save it, Murph," Connor said quietly. "Bottle it up, and save it for tonight."

The cell phone buzzed. It was a text from Smecker:

DOLLY WILL TAIL TO GARAGE. U MAKE SURE HE GOES TO ST MIKE. I WILL TAKE OVER THERE.

* * *

They kept their distance at the cemetery, watching the mourners gathering inside the mausoleum from far enough away that when the cell phone rang Murphy was able to answer it.

"Where are you?" It was Smecker.

"Above the north entrance. You?"

"South. Dolly's inside. Vigoda's sitting with his mother. If she goes with him afterwards, we'll need to postpone any…action until later tonight."

"Never liked the daylight anyway."

"Duffy says Vigoda goes in to work at six-"

"For the mob? Mancini's posting his work schedules now?

"Vigoda's a driver, but not just for Mancini. He delivers chow mein in his off hours."

"You're shittin' me. Who the hell is this guy?"

"Accomplice to a triple homicide, for starters. After tonight, I'm hoping we'll know more."

Murphy heard the order loud and clear. "Don't worry, Paul. We won't let you down."

* * *

.

.

_**Author's Note**_: _I really regret making you guys wait so long for this update. This chapter was difficult for many reasons, and may not be my best, but please be assured it is leading us somewhere! Thanks for your patience, and for your very helpful and encouraging reviews. You guys rock_.


	24. Annie & Beckman

**[Chapter 24: Annie & Beckman]**

**.**

Murphy watched Dolly's taillights receding through the windshield of the LTD. It was their turn again—the final shift in the Bobby Vigoda stakeout. He rubbed his thumb absently over the ski mask in his hand. The last two times he'd worn it this week hadn't exactly turned out sunshine and roses. And trouble was supposed to come in threes.

The ring of a cell phone startled him out of his thoughts. Damn, probably Jake or Annie calling to find out why they'd disappeared that morning. He waited for Connor to answer it but Connor was looking at him.

"Did you change our ringtone?" he asked.

"Shit. It's Annie's phone. It must have fallen out of my pants." By the time Murphy fished it out, it had stopped ringing. He read the display. "Why is Beckman calling her?"

"I think the important question here is why was her phone in your pants?"

"Don't ask." Murphy tossed it on the dash.

The phone gave a short chirp—the voicemail alert. Connor reached for it, but Murphy was faster.

"You're going to listen to her voicemail?" Connor asked.

"Of course I'm going listen to her voicemail." He pushed the button to dial it.

"You'll need her password, genius."

The call picked up and Murphy entered the digits, smirking when it went through. "Her sister's birthday. She never changes it."

He felt his lip curl when Beckman's voice came over the line:

"_Annie, hey, it's Josh…ua Beckman—Detective Beckman. I was thinking about what you said at St. Michael's today, and I wanted to take you up on that coffee. But it's my treat-I know it's been a rough day for you. Anytime you're ready, I'll pick you up. You've got my number."_

Murphy stared at the phone.

Connor handed him a cigarette.

* * *

Annie descended the stairs into the narrow sub-level passage, a crooning voice and the music of a brass band growing louder and louder in her ears. Josh had told her he knew a place better than McConnell's Beantown Brew. She'd assumed that still meant coffee.

The noise hit full-force as the stairs opened into a wide room that glowed with blue and golden lights. With its modern-retro geometric styling and colors, the place was like a set from _Mad Men_. Mirrors were mounted throughout the bar, perhaps to compensate for the low ceiling. It was still early for a Saturday night, but the place was already filling up. Josh's hand was at her back, nudging her forward towards the lounge's sparkling, circular bar.

On a small stage, a fedora-wearing singer belted out the final chorus of _Fly Me to the Moon_, and Annie shouted to be heard above him. "I thought we were going for coffee!"

"Come on," Josh said with a smile, flagging the bartender. "After the day you've had? You could use a real drink."

"Normally yes, but I'm still paying for last night."

The bartender pointed to Josh.

"Two house specials, Carl. Make 'em top shelf."

"No, really," Annie said, elbowing herself closer. "Carl, I'll just have a water with lemon."

"Annie, his martinis are the best in the city."

"Josh, it won't matter if they're the best in the world. I'm all virgin tonight."

She felt the eyes of a sharply-dressed man next to them and tried not to care. _A means to an end_, she reminded herself.

Josh and the bartender exchanged a look. "See what you can do," Josh told him, doing some sort of handshake money exchange that was over before Annie could stop him.

"Hey," Annie said, "I'm the one with the favor to ask. This is supposed to be my treat."

"And I'm the one saying, forget about it. Didn't you get my voicemail?"

Annie scowled. "No, my phone's MIA. Luckily you were clever enough to find me at my uncle's shop."

"What can I say, I'm a brilliant detective. How'd you lose your phone? I was a little worried last night after you called me."

Annie closed her eyes. "Yeah, that didn't work out as planned. I ended up staying with Leah, that's probably where…I left it. Hey, if I gave you a license plate number, could you run it and find out who the car belongs to?"

"I'll want to know why I'm doing it."

"Oh…there's this guy that always takes the parking in front of the tattoo shop…"

"Write it down for me. So you stayed with Leah. Interesting. And you're still under the weather? Don't you medics keep IVs around for exactly this reason?"

Annie pressed her lips together. "Leah does, in fact. And she was happy to hang it for me – provided I could start the line myself."

"Ah. Blow a vein?"

"To put it mildly. Note the long sleeves."

"Leah's kind of a hard ass, it seems."

"Some would say hard ass. Others might go with sadistic bitch. But hey, she did let me borrow the skirt."

"I noticed. Looks good on you."

Annie tucked a hair behind her ear. "Anyway...I think our order's up."

Both drinks were in martini glasses. Hers wasn't water, though it was lemon-garnished. Josh offered it to her without a hint of apology. "Try it," he said.

She accepted it warily, took a breath, and brought the glass to her lips. Her gut would let her know whether it was wise to proceed.

It was lemonade. Shaken with ice and perfectly mixed. Josh laughed and she smiled. Laughing made her ribs hurt.

The song ended and they both applauded.

"This place is great on weeknights, too," Josh told her.

"It kind of has that speak-easy feel. Not what I would have pictured for you, exactly." She stopped short of saying he struck her as too uptight to enjoy that kind of vibe.

Josh's eyes narrowed and she got the weird feeling that he knew what she was thinking.

"Tell me more about Leah," he said. "How well do you know her?"

Annie blinked. "Come on, not you, too," she sighed. It was like she'd sprouted a Google search bar on her forehead. Was this why he'd been so willing to make time for her? "For the record, our conversations on shift range from outright beratings to quiet marveling at my incompetence. Occasionally she goes off about Tom Brady, but that's probably better not repeated."

Josh put his drink down, centering it carefully on the paperboard coaster. "It's the off-shift hours I'm more interested in."

"You mean like last night at Doc's."

He nodded. Then he waited. It was as if she had no choice but to fill the silence.

"You saw her," Annie said with a wave of her glass. "She's a _phen-om-en-on_."

Again with his nodding, again with his silence.

"From what I can tell, she's the same with meds and protocols and…why are you asking me this? Everybody knows about it now, it's no big secret. She has a photographic memory. It's kind of annoying, actually."

Josh glanced up as the band members returned to the stage, checking instruments, moving mic cords.

"Has she spoken to you about what happened the night she was attacked?"

"_No._" Tired of repeating herself, Annie set down her glass. "I don't mean for this to sound rude, Josh-but is this really the best you can do?"

His mouth opened slightly, and for once, the silence didn't seem purposeful.

"People are _dying_. Randomly, systematically—either way, it's murder. Your job is to stop it, right? No offense, but chit-chatting over martinis doesn't seem like the way to do it." Josh's brow puzzled briefly but she was on a roll. "What I want to know," she said, leaning closer so she could lower her voice and still be heard, "is what _you're_ doing about the Saints."

Josh's face took on an expression she hadn't seen before—not exactly hard, but not exactly friendly either. Strangely, it was much more interesting than his white smiles.

"_This,"_ he gestured to her with his drink, "is what I'm doing."

"Talking to me?"

"That's my job. I _talk_ to people. The Saints aren't operating in a vacuum. They move like locals; they blend in. They're getting help from somewhere, and there's always somebody out there who knows something."

The impact of what he was implying made her heart skip, but she needed to hear him say it out loud. "What does that have to do with Leah and her beautiful mind?"

Josh leaned in, his breath warm on her ear. "Leah's beautiful mind could very well be the key to catching them."

Annie sat upright. "I _knew_ it. I knew that Scuderi guy had to be one of their victims. But what about that woman Martha-"

Josh picked up both their drinks, impatient now that the band was beginning to warm up. "Let's find a booth, all right?" Finally feeling close to getting some answers, she slid off the barstool and let him lead her back into the darkness.

She told him everything she'd heard about the night of Scuderi's murder. Almost none of it had come directly from Leah. When she added in the comments from John and Ortie and Chaffey, it still didn't add up to much more than a bad experience Leah was trying hard to put behind her.

Josh sighed.

"Sorry, I told you I didn't know much," she said. "I really wish there was more I could do."

He gave a small, tired smile. "Why don't we try another route? Tell me what you've heard about the Saints."

"What _I've_ heard?" She'd be here with Josh all night.

The waitress appeared just as the band cranked up the amps. Josh ordered another round and this time Annie managed to pull her money faster. She slipped the waitress a twenty—she didn't have anything smaller—and asked her to bring some water as well.

Josh shrugged out of his jacket and rolled up his white sleeves, giving her The Smile. "Tell me everything."

* * *

An hour later, the band was in full swing, and so was Annie.

"…and then there's old Mrs. Callaghan, who let me tell you is a piece of work—don't tell her I said that, though, I don't think she ever liked me. Too much color in my hair, not enough Hail Marys in my heart, she used to say…" And too much leg showing beneath her skirt at church, which okay, may have been true, but at least she was there! Annie was never too confident that anything she did met with divine approval, but she had to believe that good intentions counted for _something_. But then, what was that saying about the road to hell…?

She caught Josh's eye as she reached for her lemonade. His arms were spread, resting along the booth seat behind him. His tie was loosened, his hair had broken free from its gelled hold, and he'd been nodding in a slow, steady rhythm as she talked, seeming to be watching her more than actually listening.

"Go on," he said. "What does Mrs. Callaghan say about the Saints?"

Annie crunched some of the sugar from the rim of her glass. That bartender was a genius. "She says the Morman kids in the shirts and ties that knock on her door every other week keep guns in their hollowed-out Bibles."

Josh's shoulders shook with an open laugh that reminded Annie of a donkey. She giggled into her mocktail.

"That's nothing. Jonas McGerkin's wife swears they're Gambino boys, you know from Queens, trying to take out the competition but pretending to be Irish to avoid an open war."

Josh rubbed his five-o-clock shadow. "New Yorkers? What about the Irish accents?"

"Fake. And not very convincing, according to my source."

She could have sworn Josh's face turned grim for a moment, as if he was actually considering these ridiculous theories.

"And how would _your source_ know that?"

"Well, he happens to be from Ireland."

Josh must have been really getting tired, because it was a few seconds before he leaned forward, laying a hand over hers at the base of her drink before she could pick it up. "I mean how would he have _heard_ their accents, to know if they sound authentic?"

"You got me there, detective. It's a _mystery_." His persistence was somewhat endearing, but mostly smothering. She wiggled her fingers under his until he removed them.

Josh shook his head, smiling again. She found herself staring at his teeth. Seriously, how did he get them so white? "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

Now he was laughing again. "_I said_, the Gambinos couldn't care less what happens in Boston."

"I know, right? _He_ apparently believes it's Whitey Bulger coming off the lam to reclaim his territory."

"Who does?"

"A very wise, possibly sober old man on the T – who apparently got much wiser after Murphy put a few dollars in his cup."

Josh's laughter faded. He sat back, regarding her for a long moment.

"Murphy MacManus told you all this?" he asked finally.

Annie frowned, remembering Murphy's comments outside the liquor store. "No, Murphy prefers to live his life in denial. Connor, on the other hand, could rattle off the B.S. all day."

Josh was leaning his elbows on the table now, and she noticed he'd hardly touched his drink. "Murphy won't discuss it with you?" he asked.

Her skin bristled at his suspicious tone. "Do we need to alert the press?"

He shrugged, turning his attention to the band and adding, "It just seems odd – I got the feeling you two were pretty close."

She was about to take a drink, but the sweet scent turned her stomach and she set the glass down.

Josh ducked a little to meet her eyes. "You all right?"

She nodded, not entirely sure. He slid her one of the waters the waitress had brought them.

"Sometimes," Josh began gently, "when people have secrets…"

Annie scoffed, pushing up her sleeves, too warm now in the small booth. "Murphy doesn't have any secrets. At least none that would interest you."

If Josh heard the dig in her words, he didn't react. "Do you think if Murphy really knew something—even just a rumor—if he had information about the Saints—would he tell you?"

Annie hesitated. "Of course he would. The Saints killed a friend of ours."

"Does he believe that? Technically, nothing's ever been proven. The evidence points to the Saints—but sometimes people don't want to believe the evidence. Especially when it contradicts something else they believe in. "

"Like those kooks who think the moon landing was a hoax." She shook her head. "Murphy isn't that kind of crazy."

"So, what kind of crazy is he?"

Annie frowned at him, unsure how she kept losing control of the conversation. "Can we discuss something other than my ex-boyfriend?"

"I'm not interested in the boyfriend part, just the man," he said, lifting his hands.

"As a man, you wouldn't find him that interesting."

"He's a few shades from Upstanding Citizen, Annie. He killed a man with a toilet."

"That was self-defense! The charges were dropped."

"It was extreme. You mentioned before how religious he and his brother are-"

"I never said it was a _bad_ thing."

"And I'm not either. All I'm saying is, consider your sources. _Consider_ them—is Murphy MacManus the kind of person who might make an error in judgment when forming relationships?"

Annie made a face.

"I'm not talking about _you_," Josh said, smiling faintly. "But think about it – one of his best friends was a career Mafioso, who-"

"One of _my_ friends," she snapped, a flash-boil of anger rising inside her, condensing to a lump in her throat. "He was my friend too, and _you don't get to talk about him_."

Josh's hands flew up. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that, you're right." He turned to the wide-eyed waitress, who'd chosen a fine moment to reappear. "Can you get us a towel?"

Feeling suddenly cold, Annie looked down to find she'd spilled half a glass of water on herself. "Damn."

"I'm sorry," Josh said again, gathering up all the cocktail napkins and coming to kneel beside her. "That really wasn't a relevant point…entirely." He pressed the napkins to her shirt.

Pain seared in her ribs, and she cried out, tears springing to her eyes.

Josh snapped his hand back. "What did I do?"

"It wasn't you, it was Murphy," she muttered, annoyed that she'd forgotten about the injury. She took the napkins from him and lifted the edge of her shirt, putting half of them inside so she could blot the fabric without touching her skin.

Josh was silent, but when she took the napkins out, his hand snaked in and lifted her shirt higher, exposing the swollen, ugly bruise.

"This is his handiwork?" His voice was cold, businesslike.

"Not like _that_," she said, heat rushing to her face as she pulled the fabric back down. "It was an accident."

Josh raised an eyebrow, his mouth forming a thin, hard line.

"No, I mean it was an _accident_. Well, an on-purpose accident, but—"

"This happened last night? After he took you home?"

"Um, here's that towel," the waitress said, depositing fresh drinks on the table. Suddenly Annie's eyes were burning. She wiped at her shirt, blinking furiously, wishing to God she'd never gotten out of bed that day.

Finished, she tossed the damp towel on the table and took a long, cold drink, avoiding eye contact with Josh until she was sure the ridiculous threat of tears had passed.

What was _wrong_ with her? All she'd wanted was to convince the almighty detective to let her help. So far, she looked like she could hardly help herself. And what was all this talk about Murphy? Earlier she'd thought Josh was flirting, but his expression was so smug naturally that it was hard to be sure. The view in that part of her brain was even foggier than it had been last night.

A lightbulb went on, blasting through the mist in her mind and starting her heart thumping hard in her chest.

She looked closely at her drink. She took a small, careful taste, rolling it around on her tongue, chewing it with her teeth like they did at the wineries.

Vodka. She was sure of it now. Her pulse thundered until it filled her ears.

"Everything all right?" Josh's voice came from very far away.

"Fantastic. I'm gonna run to the ladies'."

She walked away as quickly as she dared, cursing when she stumbled. She clenched her purse tightly under her arm, lest she be tempted to run back and beat him with it. Rounding the other side of the bar, she caught sight of their waitress and pulled her aside.

"Did we have a misunderstanding earlier? I distinctly remember asking you, rather generously, to keep the waters and _non_-alcoholic cocktails coming."

The waitress colored to the roots of her hair. "I am so sorry, I really am. Your date must have tipped Carl-"

"The bartender?"

The waitress glanced over her shoulder. "Carl's really good at making drinks strong, but, um…tasty."

Annie felt her mouth fall open. "So that I wouldn't notice?" Another waitress hurried by, and she stepped to the side, swaying on her feet. "Damn it, I _didn't_ notice!" Laughter erupted from a large group seated nearby, and it struck her deeply even though a lingering, rational inner voice knew it wasn't directed at her. "I am such an idiot," she moaned. "And he is such an asshole!"

The waitress put an arm on her shoulder. "Don't feel bad," she said. "Carl's _very _talented." She bit her lip. "I really am sorry."

Annie looked back across the room, unable to see Josh beyond the bustle of people at the bar. She pictured him, calm and sober, coolly pleased with his own cleverness. She pictured him with olive skewers in his eye sockets and felt a little better. If only she didn't need him!

She opened her wallet and took out all her cash, making a point to read the other woman's nametag. "Felicia, here's another twenty. And here's a ten and three ones. Thirty…three dollars to redeem yourself. Josh just gave you another order, Carl's probably working on it now."

Felicia bit her lip again. "Yes, but-"

"No buts. Whatever he ordered, make mine a virgin. I don't care what you have to do." Annie pressed the money into Felicia's hand. "Are we clear?"

"We're clear," Felicia said, tucking the money in her apron. "You're not going to rip your date a new one?"

Annie shook her head slowly, trying to make sense of it. "Not just yet." Why would he want her drinking?

Felicia glanced towards Carl. "So, what are you going to do?"

"I don't know yet. First I have to pee."

Annie made a quick stop in the ladies' room—she really did have to pee now, damn it, and returned to the table, determined to play along until she could figure out what Josh was after.

But Felicia was already there, with two fresh drinks and a harried smile. Annie thanked her. Josh said nothing. He'd picked up the first martini and was now staring, puzzled, at the other.

Curiously, he picked up the glass: bone dry; empty but for a thin skewer of green olives.

Felicia was scurrying away as fast as her sensible heels could take her. Josh called her but she didn't slow down. He pushed back from the table.

Annie sighed. So much for playing along. "Let her go," she said. "It's what I ordered."

"An empty glass?"

"Apparently your buddy Carl has a sense of humor."

Josh lowered the glass. "Oh."

"Yeah. _Oh_." She took the skewer and sucked off one green olive. "It's a virgin martini, Detective Beckman. You should know that if this were an actual date-and if this were an actual martini-you'd be wearing it."

He set the other martini down carefully, as far from her as possible. "So… this isn't a date?" His Cheshire cat smile shone eerily in the bluish light.

Annie mentally rolled her eyes. "What'd you tip him, twenty? Thirty? Doesn't really matter, since you're going to expense it, right?"

Josh's lips pursed.

"Exactly. This is business, and I don't know what yours is, but I came here tonight to ask you to help. I mean, I want to help. You. Even though you're a sneaky, messed-up jerk—you're the one on the case. I'm going to help you find the Saints."

Josh squeezed his temples. "Annie, I think it's better if we talk about this later, when you're-"

"Sober? When I'm _sober_?"

There was the sound of glass breaking. Had she knocked the table when she stood up? A minute later, someone had an arm around her waist, helping her up the stairs. _Ugh_-it was Josh. She pushed him away and powered up the rest on her own.

She reached the top and looked around for a cab, but there didn't seem to be any at this hour in the financial district. To make it worse, she couldn't remember which car was his.

"It's to the left," Josh said, then caught her arm. "Annie, wait, I'm sorry. Let's talk about this."

"Let's not." She tugged her arm, but his grip was firm.

"You were wound up tight, all right? You had a really bad day, you were tired, and I needed you talking. I needed you to relax."

"Why? If you want to know something, just ask me! I _want_ to help you! Didn't you wonder why I asked you for coffee in the first place?"

Slowly, he turned so they were facing each other and slid his hand down until it was holding hers. "Tell me. I'm listening now."

Annie lifted her eyes to the sky. The traffic signal above her was flashing red. The wind whipped her hair and suddenly scenes from the previous night shot through her mind, a torrent of panic and confusion and angry, spiteful words.

Josh's grasp on her was solid. She took a breath and turned her face to the wind, letting it cool her stinging eyes. "You wanted to know about Murphy. Well, you should know he would never hurt me, not on purpose." Not physically, anyway.

"Okay. But…"

"But he can be a little unpredictable." It used to be one of her favorite things about him. "I thought he would feel the same way I do about what happened to Rocco, but-" A lump formed in her throat and she swallowed hard.

A car turned through the intersection, catching them in its headlights. She squinted, frozen in the glare, hearing Josh's voice from a million miles away. After what seemed like forever, the car revved and sped off.

Josh gave her hand a squeeze, and a strange discomfort seeped through her.

She pulled her fingers free and stuck both hands in her pockets. "What?"

"I said, do you think spending time with him is in your best interest?"

"I'm not sure spending time with _you_ is in my best interest. I'm only here because I'm out of options."

Josh grimaced, and she took a breath, starting over.

"I came to you because you're our best shot. If anyone's going to catch the people that killed Frankie and Rocco, it's going to be you." Josh's eyes narrowed sharply, but only for a moment. "I can help," she whispered.

Josh met her eyes, and it was the detective she saw, listening for a deeper meaning beneath her words. She took a breath, searching for a way to explain herself, determined not to waste the opportunity.

"I have this hill, see," she sighed, "this mountain that I've been trying to get over for a very long time, and I keep thinking, I'm going to make it, that I'm almost there, but then I'll see on the news," her voice broke. Josh moved to rub her arms, but she backed up, holding up a hand to stop him. "Then I'll see the _news_, and it's like a rainstorm, like a fucking hurricane or a tsunami, and I'm back on my ass in the mud, I'm still at the bottom. And the mountain's still there."

Josh's voice was different, gentle. "I think I understand."

She shook her head, no. "The Saints have to be punished. You're going to bring them down. And I am going to help."

"Annie, I don't-"

"I _need_ to, Josh. Please. There must be something useful I can do."

She met his stare for a long moment. He sighed. "You won't like it."

"I'll do anything."

He smiled without amusement. "Remember you said that."

* * *

**A/N:** _You guys know what to do_!


	25. Interrogation

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed - it's incredibly encouraging!

**Chapter 25: Interrogation**

.

* * *

Through the un-curtained kitchen window, Murphy and Connor watched Carla Vigoda slap her son Bobby upside the head for the third time in as many minutes. A bite of food fell off of Bobby's fork. He picked it up and threw it at her.

"Damn," Murphy said, "and I thought we were dysfunctional."

"Come on, Mrs. Brady," Connor muttered, checking his watch. "Don't you have a Bingo game to get to?"

The front door slammed and Bobby stalked out to warm up the Cutlass. Carla followed a few minutes later, shuffling down the walk with a zebra-printed handbag, in heels that looked mighty risky for a woman her age.

Connor waited until Bobby was two houses down before sliding into traffic behind him. They tailed the Cutlass to see Carla deposited under the flickering marquee sign at Club Italia, then followed Bobby on to the neon-glowing storefront of Curry Wok.

Murphy cracked his window. "That explains the smell."

"I think we've ordered from this place before," Connor said. "The sweet and sour pork's not as good as Jimmy Chan's."

Murphy's stomach growled. "I don't know about the pork, but I could do with some Kung Pow chicken."

"Well, we know our delivery boy's a good driver," Connor said with a growing smile. "It's too bad about these waterfront streets, though. Addresses can be a bitch to find."

* * *

They wedged the LTD into the shadow of a shipping container, and ducked into the alley between two warehouses whose address numbers skipped inexplicably from 1310 to 1372. The air was cold this close to the water, made worse by the clinging moisture of the harbor, and Murphy was glad to have his mask and gloves to help ward it off.

Through the blurry darkness, a single headlight approached, off-center in the road. The vehicle slowed as it neared the first warehouse, turning enough to let them confirm it had Boston's ugliest paint job.

It passed in front of the alley and came to a stop under the second warehouse's dimly lit address numbers. Crouched low, Connor and Murphy waited in the shadows.

Bobby had duct-taped plastic over the bullet holes in the rear window, and the noise of it fluttering and flapping in the breeze was perfect for covering the crunch of Connor's footsteps on the gravel as he crept up the passenger side. Bobby rolled the passenger window down and leaned across the seat to peer up at the warehouse. An instant later, Connor's Beretta tapped his temple.

Bobby jumped. "Shit."

"Eyes forward," Connor said, slipping into the front seat and tossing boxes of take-out into the back.

"Fuck. I knew there wasn't something right about this order."

"Oh, the order's legit. We'll get to that in a minute."

"Look, I only got less than a hundred. It's in my bag." Bobby's hand began to lower, and a second barrel jabbed the back of his head.

"Hands on the wheel," Murphy said from the backseat. "We're not here for your money, or whatever else you're carrying, Bobby." Slowly, Bobby's hands closed around the wheel. The car crept forward a few inches.

Connor yanked the gearshift into Park, then took the keys, glancing at Murphy. "Do the honors?"

Murphy stepped around to the driver door and hauled Bobby to his feet. "Hands out of your pockets and on the hood. _Now_, asshole, before I shoot you another one."

Snarling, Bobby flipped his hands up and began to turn around, and Murphy moved in to frisk him. Gravel crunched and pain exploded in his shin. He saw the sharp upswing of Bobby's elbow and ducked his head. The blow glanced above his right eye. Gritting his teeth, he slammed Bobby sideways against the car.

"Stupid fuckin' wop." He rammed the purse pistol under Bobby's fat chin.

Bobby stilled.

"Your splattered brains would make a nice improvement to the paint job. Don't tempt me."

Bobby's face pinched into a sneer. "If you were gonna do it, you'd a done it."

Murphy buried a fist in his gut. Bobby groaned, doubling over enough for Murphy to see the pistol tucked into the back of his polyester pants.

"You finished playin' yet?" Connor called.

Murphy shoved Bobby back into his seat and returned to his position in the back.

Behind his mask, Connor frowned. "All right?" he asked Murphy, knocking Bobby's temple none too gently with the Beretta.

Murphy felt blood seep into the crease of his eyelid. He snatched a take-out napkin and pressed it hard against his brow bone. He should have kept that superglue.

"And then some," he told Connor, holding up the large black pistol for inspection under the yellow dome light.

"What is that, a .40 cal?" Connor asked.

"Forty-five." Murphy ran his finger along the barrel. "H&K. Damn, Bobby, where'd you get this? This beauty's worth more than you are."

"Go fuck yourself."

"I take back what I said before – we _are_ here for what you're carrying. Which, from now on, is what _I'll_ be carrying. _Danke schön_." He popped the magazine—full, with one in the chamber—then retired the purse pistol without ceremony to his shoulder holster.

"We have a few questions," Connor said. "You're going to give us some answers. And if we don't like them, we'll find out if this ugly piece of shit drives as fast at the bottom of Boston Harbor as it does on the street. Are we clear?"

"Who the fuck are you?"

"We know what you've been up to," Murphy said. "We want to know why."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I deliver Chinese foo-""

Bobby's face smashed into the steering wheel. Connor yanked him upright by his greasy ponytail and restored the Beretta to his temple as if it had never moved.

Bobby groaned, holding both hands to his nose.

"Let's not waste each other's time," Connor said. "A week ago you helped _deliver_ three people to the morgue, playing chauffeur for a trigger-happy fucker in a black hoodie. Who is he?"

Bobby shook his head, his voice thick. "It was just a job. Someone else set it up."

"Mancini."

Bobby lowered his hands. "You don't know shit," he muttered. "You ain't got the slightest idea who you're fuckin' with."

Connor smiled. "Why do you think you're still alive, Bobby? Your head's full of all kinds of shit we don't know. Now, your kneecaps on the other hand – I don't guess you've got too much information stored down there-"

"All right! Fuckin' all right. Ask your fucking questions."

"What's the hooded fucker's name?"

Bobby sniffed. In the rear view Murphy could see the blood streaming from his nose, smeared over the lower half of his face. "I don't know his name."

Connor put the Beretta to his knee.

"Mancini just called him an associate! Said he would call me and I should do whatever he asked."

"You're his bitch. Yeah, I guess I could see that. Who's the next target?"

"I don't _know_."

Connor jabbed his temple.

"I really don't! I'm just a driver. I got nothing to do with that."

"Nothing to do with it? I think Eugene Scuderi might have a different opinion. And Leo Buffone. And Martha Osborne. And Yamir Kandukuri."

Bobby glanced up. "That janitor? That wasn't me. I mean, I wasn't driving."

Murphy shifted to get a better angle on Bobby, pushing the to-go boxes aside. "Your friend the Associate went solo?"

"Looks that way, don't it?"

"What about Frankie Hayes?" Murphy asked.

Bobby scowled, wiping his nose with the back of one hand, then the other. "Who?"

"Never mind," Connor said. "Why'd you go after the girl?"

Bobby swallowed. "What girl?" After a beat of silence he chanced a look at Connor.

Connor met his eyes with no expression whatsoever. "Don't fuck with me. I saw what you left on her front door. Hands on the wheel, please."

Bobby obeyed, his fat fingers beginning to shake. "He told me to write it, I wrote it. He wants to shut her up."

"She already talked to the cops, genius," Murphy said.

"Look, all's I know is he calls me in the middle of a fucking Pay-Per-View, and I got to haul ass to Southie to scare some bitch who's not even home when I get there."

"You didn't want to wait around," Connor said.

"But being the dependable, go-to guy that you are," Murphy continued, "you decided to leave her a little note with some paint you happened to have rolling around in the trunk."

Bobby's double chin jutted defensively. "Got the message across."

"I don't know," Connor mused. "Kinda sent a mixed signal when you ran away with your tail tucked."

"That was you?" Bobby shifted slightly, turning his head a fraction toward Murphy in the back. "And you—you were the crazy fuck chasing me. Thanks for my fucking headlight."

Murphy smiled. "Hey, _you_ ran into _me_."

Connor's eyes narrowed at Murphy. "Who did you think we were?" he asked Bobby.

"I don't know." Bobby looked down. "Someone else."

"Did you tell _him_ about us?" Bobby didn't answer and Connor chuckled. "Why, Bobby, did you _lie_ to a cold-blooded killer?"

"I didn't tell him anything. He'd already tried to cancel the order so I figured it was better not to—

"Wait," Murphy said, leaning forward on the seat, "he tried to call it off?"

Bobby sniffed, wiping his nose on his shoulder. "I need to get something, all right? In the glove compartment-"

"What? A hankie?" Connor mocked. "Talk first and we'll see. Why'd your man want to call it off?"

"He just said, 'Forget it, not tonight.'" Bobby swallowed. His eyes were glued to the glove compartment, his shoulders rising and falling with every breath. "I don't know when he called, it went to my voicemail. I didn't check it until I got home."

"I wonder what he'll say when he finds out." Connor's head tilted. "Let's give him a ring. Where's your phone?"

Bobby paled. "I-I don't have it."

Connor held out a hand, cocking the Beretta with the other.

Bobby shook his head, scattering drops of blood and sweat. He was breathing entirely through his mouth now, and the coppery smell of blood was mixing with the stink of bad breath and fear. Murphy rolled his window down a few inches.

"He'll kill me. He said I couldn't call him, or ever try to contact him or I'd end up like..."

"Let me get this straight," Murphy cut in. "You've got _two_ loaded guns to your head, facing a cold dark swim in the harbor and you're scared to call your _partner_?"

"He's fucking cold! The last guy who worked with him got a bullet in the head."

Connor laughed. "Leo Buffone?"

"I don't believe this," Murphy said.

"Look at me, Bobby," Connor said. Bobby turned. Pointing the Beretta's barrel between his eyes, Connor spoke slowly and quietly. "Buffone got a bullet in the head because he had a listening problem. That night in front of Scuderi's office, I told him to let his hostage go. He didn't listen. The bullet in his head was _mine_."

Bobby's eyes squeezed shut, his breathing becoming so fast and labored that Murphy began to worry he might hyperventilate and pass out.

"Now," Connor continued calmly, "Did you hear me ask for your phone? Or do you have a listening problem, too?"

His hand shaking violently, Bobby retrieved the phone from a deep recess in the dash. He handed it to Connor.

"Don't worry," Connor said. "I'm not going to make you call him." He scrolled for a few moments, then pressed a button and held the phone to his ear.

"No!" Bobby cried. "Oh, no. I'm a fucking dead man."

"You're a dead man anyway," Connor said, putting the phone on speaker. It rang four times before the other end picked up.

There was a beat of silence, then a cold voice came over the line. "Who is this?"

Murphy strained to hear over Bobby's labored breathing. Was it the same voice from the alley?

Connor nudged Bobby with the Beretta. "B-Bobby Vigoda."

"You were told never to call this number."

A South Boston accent wrapped with impatience and seething with anger. Murphy met Connor's eyes and a chill passed over him.

Bobby cringed and his voice cracked. "I know, I'm sorry, I-"

"Bobby has to go now," Connor cut in. "But we're going to be having a nice, long chat with him, so if you'd like to swing by-"

The line went dead.

"He hung up," Connor said with mock surprise, thumbing a few more buttons on the phone before slipping it in his jacket. "Man, did he sound angry. Think he'll take it out on you?"

Bobby yanked on his collar, taking quick, gasping breaths.

"We'll wait and see if he calls back," Connor said. "In the meantime, tell us about Mr. Carmen Mancini."

"What are you, cops? Feds?"

"We're the men who've got guns to your head. And we're the ones asking the questions."

Bobby's hand pressed to his chest. "I need…" he wheezed, "I need…."

Murphy nudged Connor with an elbow. _"Er kann nicht sprechen, wenn er an einem Herzanfall stirbt."_

Connor blew out a sigh, then punched open the glove compartment. Half a dozen pill bottles tumbled out.

Bobby gasped, reaching for them, but Connor stopped him with a quick jab. "Not so fast," he warned. With a glance at Murphy to make sure his brother's gun was at the ready, Connor poked through the selection, squinting to read the labels. "What's your poison? Ativan…Xanax…Triazolam…Christ, I thought I had problems."

"The orange bottle, just give me the orange bottle."

Connor opened the small prescription container. "Something's bothering me about your gun, Bobby. An H&K 45's way beyond your pay grade." He tapped out one round yellow tablet onto his gloved palm. "And yet here you are walkin' around with one pinched between your ass cheeks. Is that standard issue, workin' for the Man?" He glanced at Murphy. "I hope you wiped that off, by the way."

"I ain't…" Bobby gasped for air, tugging at his collar. A button popped off and plinked against the windshield. "I ain't a rat."

Connor opened the door and tossed the pill out into the night.

"No, don't!"

"The bottles go next."

Bobby swallowed. "H-He gave it to me. Mancini did."

Connor tapped out another pill. "Why?"

Bobby reached out a shaking, bloody hand for the pill, but Connor closed his fist around it.

Bobby whimpered. "It was for this job, an advance. I'm supposed to get a grand when it's done."

Connor dropped the pill into his hand. Bobby tossed it back, then wiped at his eyes.

"What's your normal salary?" Murphy asked.

Bobby's focus was back on the pill bottle. "Can I have another one?" he asked Connor.

Connor raised an eyebrow.

Bobby gave a raspy sigh. "Three-fifty a week."

Connor let out a low whistle. "An honest-to-goodness made man!" He poured another two pills into his palm, paused for a moment, then tipped them back in and offered Bobby the whole bottle. "Take it – but pace yourself—it may be another week before they promote you to Godfather."

The words echoed inside Murphy. This was not the first time he'd heard them from his brother.

"Fuck you." Bobby grabbed the bottle and dumped the contents into his bloody palm. "It's not just a job, you know. It's about more than the money."

"Let me guess," Murphy said. "Mancini told you this was a personal favor."

Bobby threw back the pills.

"He told you this was a real responsibility," Murphy continued. "Things would change for you if came through."

Bobby's head tilted. "Yeah, so? It's my time."

"Oh, it's your time all right. I don't fucking believe this."

Connor's eyes held a warning. Murphy tried to relax his grip on the trigger. "How are you supposed to know when the job is over?" he asked.

Bobby hesitated. "Mancini said I'd know."

"Moron! That means he's going to _kill_ you."

Bobby laughed, a high, nervous wobble. "Mancini wouldn't kill me."

"Why? Because you're so fucking important that he pays you less than minimum wage? So you have to live at home with your fucking old lady and work a second job delivering this hack-job excuse for Chinese food? He doesn't give a shit about you. Why do you think he was so quick to hand over this sweet pistol? 'Cause as soon as he pops you_ he's taking it back._ Wake up, asshole. You're expendable, and not just to us. I should kill you now and deny Mancini the pleasure." He cocked the pistol, releasing the slide with a sharp clap an inch from Bobby's ear.

Bobby jerked away with a wince. "You don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled.

Connor laid a hand on Murphy's arm. Murphy sucked in a breath, his pulse thundering.

He sank into the back seat, upsetting the boxes of take-out. He shoved them aside, the heavy aroma of sweet oil and spice sickening him.

Connor picked up one of the fallen pill bottles and held it up to the light. "There is another option, you know," he said quietly. "This doesn't have to be your whole life story."

Silence reigned for a full minute. Then Bobby turned to look at him.

"Others have gotten out," Connor said. "Gotten protection. You wouldn't be the first."

Murphy's mouth opened, but nothing came out. He'd heard these words before, too. He'd spoken them himself.

"Shit." Bobby sank deeper into his slouch. "You _are_ Feds."

"Fuck you. Do I _look_ like a Fed?"

Slowly, his hands still shaking, Murphy again leaned forward to rest his elbows on the front seat. "We're not Feds, Bobby. But we know people."

"If you come with us now," Connor said, "we can make sure you get protection." He pulled the Beretta a few inches back from Bobby's temple. "They say that's where Scuderi was going-"

"They fucking killed Scuderi!" Bobby cried, then his dark eyes widened. "No, wait. _You_ killed Scuderi…"

Connor's lips pursed. "Well, yeah, we did. That was a bad example."

"There's no protection." Bobby shrank against his door. "There's nowhere to go. And you don't know the kind of power Mancini has, the connections. Don't talk to me about the people you know. You don't know _nothin'_."

Bobby's eyes dropped to the pill bottle Connor had laid between them on the seat. He picked it up.

"Papa Joe had connections, too," Connor said as Bobby twisted off the cap.

"He had power." Murphy leaned closer. "But he still had his day in court."

Bobby's head was tilted back to swallow the pills when he froze. He choked and coughed, looking up with watery eyes into the rearview mirror. "Oh, Jesus. Oh, shit." The bottle tipped again. Pills spilled over Bobby's blood-covered hand.

"Whoa, there," Connor said. "Okay, so you know who we are-"

"Yeah, I know who the fuck you are! You killed Papa Joe. You killed those Russians. You killed Vincenzo and Sal and the Funny Man-"

Murphy bristled. "Not him. Not the Funny Man."

"You're the S-Saints. You're the fucking Saints." Bobby's head went back again and he was crunching, crunching and swallowing.

Connor tapped him with the Beretta. "Hey. Cool it with the meds."

"Whatever, man. You kill guys like me every fucking day. You got them pennies with you?" He looked at Connor. "You do, don't you? You're gonna put them on my eyes and say that creepy-ass p-prayer."

"You want to live?" Connor said. "Don't be expendable. Give us a reason to keep you around. Tell us about Mancini. Tells us about the guns."

Bobby's head lolled from side to side. "You're gonna kill me. The fucking Associate's gonna kill me. I talk to you, Mancini's gonna kill me-"

"Enough!" Murphy barked over the hysterics. "Just listen, all right? We brought down Yakavetta. We're gonna bring down Mancini, too."

Bobby rolled his head toward Connor. "And the Associate? How you gonna bring him down?"

Connor frowned. "I have a plan."

Bobby hacked out a laugh. "You ain' got a fuckin' plan. I'm fucked…just shoot me, all right? But not in my knees. Just fuckin' shoot me in the head..."

His head rolled away, drooping, toward the window.

Connor ground his teeth. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but—I'm not going to fucking shoot you. I think I will hold on to those pills, though." Bobby ignored him. Connor put the Beretta back to his temple. "Seriously, Bobby. Hand them over." Connor grabbed his wrist and the bottle rolled out of his fingers onto the floor, empty. Bobby gave one thick snore, then lapsed into silence.

"Grand," Connor sighed. "We haven't even scratched the surface yet." He pushed up his sleeve to check the time. "Hand me that sweet & sour, would you?"

"What happens when the customers start calling, wondering where their food is?"

"Then Curry Wok will call us," Connor said, waving Bobby's phone. "So eat fast."

"Jesus," Murphy muttered, putting his gun down to dig through the take-out boxes. He was two bites into the Kung Pow—which was a far cry from Jimmy Chan's—when Bobby's phone rang the first time.

"Curry Wok," Connor read, silencing it.

A minute later it rang again. "Curry Wok again."

Murphy poked Bobby's arm and got no response. "How many pills did he take?"

Connor shrugged. The phone rang a third time. "Hmm. That was mommy dearest," Connor said. "I think we'd better cut short this siesta." He gave Bobby a hefty shake and his mouth sagged open.

Murphy prodded the back of Bobby's head with the .45. "Bobby!" No response. He tapped harder, finally pistol-whipping him. Bobby's head tipped sideways with the blow.

Connor leaned across the seat, peering closely at Bobby's chest. He peeled off his ski mask and put an ear in front of his gaping mouth. "Ah, fuck. He's not breathing."

"Shit." Murphy dropped the .45, bit off his glove and put two fingers to Bobby's neck. Nothing. He moved his fingers, pressing hard through the layers of fat. Still nothing.

"Mother_fucker_!"

Connor's mouth was hard. "Did you touch anything?" he asked.

"What?"

"Grab one of those napkins and wipe down anything you touched. Then put your fucking glove back on."

"Shall I wipe my ass as well, or would you like to tell me how to-"

"Don't fucking start with me. You have the gun?"

"Of course. You have the coins?"

Connor's head tilted.

"Dead is dead, Con."

Connor looked at Bobby. He sighed, then reached into his jacket pocket. "Fine. Let's finish this."

* * *

They left the docks the same way they'd come, Connor quietly steering the LTD along the cracking asphalt. With any luck, the thickening fog would diffuse the glare of their one working taillight.

The mist obscured the darkness of the night, enveloping the city in an odd gray-orange glow.

"Did you mean what you said back there?" Murphy asked. "About getting Bobby protection?"

Connor shrugged. "Means to an end, Murph. Just trying to get him talking."

Murphy didn't press him further. If there was more to it, he wasn't sure he wanted to know. He cracked his window, and drops of condensation blew in, spattering his face, triggering the memory of a leaking holding cell. He closed his eyes until the Call washed over him again: the clarity, the simplicity, the purpose and the direction.

"Why'd he send Bobby?" Connor asked, startling him. "Why not just go himself?"

Murphy straightened. "I was thinking that myself. Actually, I was thinking, if what Leah knows is really that threatening to him, then why didn't he just…"

"Kill her?"

"Yeah." Murphy rolled the window up. "Too much heat?"

"I don't think he cares about heat—he's proven that much with killing that janitor. Of course, he left the coins on his eyes, so maybe he's getting cocky, thinking all the blame's falling on the Saints."

"Still, his order to Bobby wasn't even to hurt her, just to give her a message and a scare. It's weird that he only changes his M.O. when it comes to Leah. Like he's got a selective conscience. And it's weird he waited until Friday night."

"You got a point there," Connor mused. "She went down to see Smecker on Wednesday. If our hooded Associate was worried about her, he would have sent his little message days ago."

"Maybe he did. If she got any other threats, would she have told you?"

Connor turned his attention to the road, his jaw muscle tightening. "I don't know."

"Maybe he didn't know she was a threat on Wednesday. He sent Bobby out last night – called him and cancelled him _last night_."

"Meaning he learned something new about Leah last night. Just like we all did."

"Wait, you don't think-"

"I do." Connor stopped for a light. "Murph, I think he was there at Doc's. Either himself in the flesh or else he's got himself a mole. You know, this morning Leah told me Beckman was the least of her problems."

"So who _is_ the problem?"

"I honestly think she doesn't know. She said it could be anyone or everyone." Connor ran a hand through his hair. "But I think someone in that bar's not to be trusted. Although, who, we got no fucking way of knowing now."

"Almost every soul in the place was watching that game," Murphy said, a pit forming in his stomach. "We should have stopped her from showing off like that, should have never let them talk her into it." And he knew why he hadn't: he'd let himself get distracted and never recognized the danger.

"_I_ talked her into it. It was stupid. I just wanted to loosen her up." Connor shook his head. "He must have seen us taking her home, realized she wouldn't be alone for Bobby to handle. I bet you anything that's why he tried to call it off."

"Beckman had a phone on his ear half the night—just sayin'."

"Biased much?"

"Hey, you don't like him any more than I do. And it doesn't change the fact of it. The timing was right - he could have made those calls to Bobby."

"So could a dozen other people. And Smecker trusts him." They turned a corner and the buildings of the financial district closed in around them, taller and tighter now, still muted by the fog. Several blocks ahead, blue and red lights flashed, jumpstarting Murphy's heart.

"I know," he said, gesturing to make sure Connor saw the lights as well. "Annie trusts him, too. You know she thinks the Saints killed Roc? It's probably why she came back."

"To hunt us down?" Connor gave a humorless laugh. "What's she going to do? She's driving an ambulance and hanging around the tat shop-tell me she didn't ask you to help her." They hit a dip in the road and the bumper clanged loudly. "Shit. Did she?"

"You heard her at Doc's. I'm good for drinkin' and inkin' and not much fucking else."

"That must be why Beckman's on her radar." Connor frowned thoughtfully. "You know, she could do worse."

"Christ, Con."

"I'm talking about detective work. Compared to you…"

"Aye, compared to me, he's a fucking superhero." Murphy rubbed his forehead.

"So, what's the harm? Let them keep each other busy."

Murphy's fingernails dug into the flesh at his temples.

Connor inched leftward. "I mean busy barking up the wrong trees! Remember what Smecker said-he's a pain in the ass. He's not going to let her or Leah or anyone else slow him down, and if he does…well, I'm sure there's nothing personal going on..."

"Stop. Just stop talking."

They neared the flashing lights, slowing to a stop at the intersection. Murphy realized the blue glow was coming from the basement-level windows of a bar on the opposite corner, and the red flashing lights from the traffic signal.

Connor stared intently through the windshield.

"Sucker." Murphy smacked him, then turned to retrieve his take-out from the back seat. "Okay, maybe you're right. Who knows, maybe together they'll at least figure out who killed Frankie."

Connor hit the gas, knocking Murphy against the door and making him spill his rice. "Fuck, man. Did you really see a cop back there?"

Connor's face was sober. "Yeah. I mean, no."

"Well, what did you see?"

Connor broke a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Nothing, don't worry about it. But there's something else—someone's got to tell Smecker about Bobby."

Murphy groaned. "I'll flip you for it. Heads I win, tails you lose."

* * *

...


	26. Peace Offerings

**[Chapter 26: Peace Offerings]**

.

.

* * *

Sleep eluded Murphy—big surprise. He finally quit trying when the sky got light. They hit the early Mass, and then the Yolk for breakfast, and then back at the apartment, they flipped a coin to decide who would call Smecker.

Murphy won the honors, but Smecker didn't pick up. He settled onto the couch, leaving a vague message that if the agent didn't already know why he was calling, he'd find out soon enough. Then he closed his tired eyes, just for a moment until Smecker called back.

When he opened them, the light was different, and he could hear the metallic clicks and scrapes of Connor disassembling weapons in the dining room.

"Did Smecker call back?" Murphy asked.

"Nah, I'm sure he could hear the bad news in your voice. He's got enough brains to assume the worst. He'll call when they find the body—which they haven't yet, or they'd be showing it on _Noticiero Telemundo."_

The TV was still on. Murphy turned the volume down and called Smecker again, not leaving a message when it went to voicemail.

He tried Seamus Callaghan next. Murphy was dying to try out his latest score, but they'd never needed .45 caliber rounds until now—he hoped the other Irishman would be open for business tonight.

"Maybe he'll let you exchange the purse pistol for store credit," Connor said when Murphy finished leaving yet another vague message and joined him at the table, adding the phone to their growing collection.

Connor had an old grease-stained towel spread across the table, and Murphy dragged it closer. He picked up the .45 and examined it carefully, not wanting to lose any parts when he disassembled the new handgun for the first time. There was hardly any wear to speak of; even the magazine was still shiny and smooth. Murphy doubted Bobby Vigoda had ever fired it.

"How much do you think Seamus knows about Mancini's gun-running operations?"

Connor dabbed oil on a rag, frowning thoughtfully. "Hard to say. They've both been around for years, but Mancini kept a lower profile when Yakavetta was in charge."

"Mancini's got a lot of friends."

"Everyone's got friends. Seamus has friends – besides us."

"Who do you think Seamus knows?"

They were both contemplating this when Annie's cell phone rang. Connor checked the display. "Jake's," he read, "You want me to answer it?"

Murphy snatched it away, turning his back while Connor snickered.

There was always a chance it was Jake, or Zeke. "Hello?"

"_Murphy?"_

But not a very good chance. "Hello, Ann."

"_I'm sorry, I hope I didn't wake you_."

Murphy squinted at the clock. "It's four in the afternoon."

"_Right. Of course_." She sounded like she was still hung-over. _"So, the reason I'm calling-"_

"You want your phone back."

"_Yeah. Sad, but I'm getting a little lonely without it. I can come by your place if you're going to be there."_

"You can't come here," he said too quickly. Their usual mess was nothing compared to the armory on the table. "I mean, it would be inconvenient. For you. I'll bring it to your place. Where are you living these days?"

"_Oh, Murphy, you're so sweet. But you don't have to do that. I don't mind coming down."_

Huh? In what universe did Annie think he was sweet? Murphy removed the phone from his ear and looked at it. It did say _Jake's_. And it did sound like Annie's voice. Connor was watching him, the slide in his hands forgotten.

Murphy turned away from his brother, lowering his voice slightly. "Ann, it's no trouble. What's your address?"

"_Well, if you're sure it's not too much trouble, you can bring it to the shop."_

"All right," he said, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Give me half an hour."

"_Thank you so much, Murphy. I really, really appreciate it."_

What on earth was going on with her? There must be customers around.

"It's all right, Ann. I meant to leave it for you at Leah's, so…it's the least I can do."

She thanked him twice more before he hung up.

Connor stared at him. "It's the _least_ you can do?"

"After we bailed on her yesterday?" Murphy slipped the phone in his pocket. "Yeah. I think it is." Odd that Annie hadn't brought up the bailing. Very odd.

He started down the hall, but the tone of Connor's voice stopped him: "Just so long as you're keeping your eyes on the prize, Murph."

An all too familiar heat ignited. Murphy kept walking, calling over his shoulder, "Con, we're returning her cell phone. It's not ThreatCon Alpha."

* * *

They walked out to the car and Connor handed him the keys. "Here. Why don't you drive, and I'll run inside and give Annie the phone?"

Murphy left the keys dangling. "I'm not allowed behind the wheel anymore, remember? I'm reckless."

Connor got in the passenger side and reached across, starting up the car for him. "A casualty of war. All's forgiven."

"Damn, with a straight face and everything! You're really serious this time. Okay, let me guess: Annie's pregnant. No, wait, that wouldn't work. She _was_ pregnant, and now she's got a wee little three-year-old, looks just like me, and she's after me for child support."

Connor didn't smile. "That's not as funny as you think it is."

"You're right, it's really not. But what else could you possibly not be telling me?"

Connor was either wise enough not to answer, or else he really was keeping secrets again. He buckled his seatbelt, and then began drumming his fingers impatiently.

Murphy swallowed a curse. Fine, no problem, he could play this game, too.

They spent the drive discussing where to pick up dinner, and his stomach was growling by the time he pulled up to the curb at Jake's and cut the engine.

"You can leave it running," Connor said. "It'll just take a sec."

"That it will. And you can either tag along and watch me, or you can keep your ass right here in the car. Either way. Won't hurt my feelings."

Connor's face soured. "Her phone's in your front pocket, isn't it?"

"Yep. And I think these jeans shrank in the wash. They're awfully tight."

Connor frowned thoughtfully, not yet ready to throw in the towel. It was impressive—but mostly irritating-how far he was willing to take this. "You know you'll be sucked into the black hole. You'll need me to pull you out."

Murphy got out, slamming his door and tossing his brother the keys. Connor was grasping at straws—but on the other hand, he might be right.

"I'm right, Murph—you know I am."

"Well, don't start pulling unless I give you the signal."

"Which is?"

"I'll walk out the door."

Connor rolled his eyes. "I'm keeping the keys."

"So, I'll say, 'Hey Con, time to hit the road,' and _then_ I'll walk out the fucking door, and then you can take the fucking keys and start the fucking car. Got it?" He stepped inside, nodding hello to Zeke behind the counter. Zeke's response was a half-second slow, his smile a notch below friendly, and Murphy groaned inwardly.

"Christ," Connor swore quietly. "We should save time and just get _I'm Sorry_ tattooed on our foreheads."

"Don't say that too loud," Murphy warned, catching sight of Annie working over the light box. "If Jake wouldn't do it, I know someone who would."

"Let's get this over with. I'll go grovel to Zeke while you return the stolen property, _again_. I'm giving you five minutes, starting now."

"Are you going to remember the signal? I can write it down if you want."

"Wait, was it _this_ signal?" Connor kept the single-digit salute low as he started in Zeke's direction.

There were two twenty-somethings decorating Jake's couches and Connor smiled at them as he passed, leaving them giggling in his wake. Jake's curtain was pulled half-closed, and his tattoo gun buzzed intermittently in the background, over the radio.

Murphy meandered over to where Annie sat at the light box, her dark hair twisted up with a pencil again, her sweatshirt sleeves pushed up to the elbow. She was concentrating, and hadn't noticed his arrival. He watched her draw, holding his breath as if trying not to spook a wild animal. Her fingers seemed thinner than he remembered, her wrists more delicate, moving quickly, deftly across the paper.

She sat back for a moment, then switched off the light box. She stood, wincing suddenly as she straightened. One hand hovered protectively over her midsection and she continued more slowly. Guilt flooded him like a river. She saw him, and flashed a smile that brightened the whole storefront.

"Murphy! Thanks so much for coming down. Hold on a sec while I give this to a customer."

The customer was obviously impressed, and thanked her about a dozen times before Annie finally extracted herself, beckoning Murphy over to her work area.

If he didn't know better, he'd think she was genuinely happy to see him. It felt a bit like he'd landed in the Twilight Zone. "Looks like business is picking up," he said, hoping it was a safe topic.

"A little. We got some good exposure at the funeral."

Right. No such thing as a safe topic. "Yeah, sorry about leaving like that…"

Annie waited a beat, but when it was clear Murphy had nothing more to add, she shrugged amiably. "No worries. I'm sure it was important, whatever it was."

Her eyes bored into him, and he ducked to dig in his pocket, hating that he'd been utterly trounced inside of thirty seconds. Where was the sarcasm, the inescapable guilt trip? At least the guilt was familiar. Guilt he could handle. He practically held an advanced degree. She was literally _killing_ him with this kindness. Well, maybe not literally, but something close to it. He pulled out her phone, also unloading a fortune cookie left over from the night before, and laid both on the counter between them, setting the plastic wrapped cookie neatly on top.

Annie scooped up the cookie with a cry of delight. "You shouldn't have."

"Well, I couldn't find any mandarin oranges. This was the next best thing."

"You know," she said with a coy smile, "you wouldn't have to bring these peace offerings if you would just stop pissing me off."

"It's not a peace offering, it's an investment. If your lucky numbers are in there, I'll expect my full share of the take."

She raised an eyebrow. "I suppose I could reimburse you the cost of the cookie." She broke it open and read the little white paper.

"_The answer to your problem will soon be obvious to you_."

"Hmm." Murphy followed her mock-serious gaze as it swept around her in search of this obvious answer. Across the shop, Connor's eyes met Murphy's, a frown line creasing his forehead.

A cell phone chirped—the sound of their voicemail alert. Connor pulled their phone from his pocket, made some excuse to Zeke, and took the call outside.

Annie's phone was still sitting on the counter. "Oh, here it is," she said. "The answer to my problem!"

"You missed a few calls," Murphy said as she opened it. "Mostly from Beckman."

"You could have answered it, and told him you had my phone."

"I was respecting your privacy."

"Oh. Right. How many calls?"

"Seven. Three voicemails. Couple of texts. He's mighty persistent."

"Some people are," she said. "And don't give me that look. Josh and I have a lot of things in common. We have…similar goals."

The sound of his name made Murphy's teeth grind. "You don't have to explain anything to me."

"Well, I thought if I started, maybe you'd join in." Something flickered in her eyes, an infinitesimal slip in her friendly façade.

Murphy's senses went on alert. "You want me to explain myself."

"Of course not." She said, regaining her excess cheeriness, and beginning to gather up loose drawings scattered around the light box. "That is, I am a little curious about why I got ditched yesterday…" She stuck the pages into a rack of colored folders, beaming at him. "But since I can pretty much guess what kind of answer I'll get, I figure, why bother asking?"

The 200-Watt smile was at complete odds with her words. Outside the window, Connor paced on the sidewalk, the cell phone still at his ear.

"I'm sorry I missed the service," Murphy said, sticking his thumbs in his pockets. He swallowed, resisting the bitter taste of yet another lie on his tongue. "Look, the truth is…"

She raised an eyebrow.

He moved closer, lowering his voice. "Connor had some bad sausage for breakfast, and after the Mass, and all the driving…it was kind of an emergency."

Annie's upper lip curled. "_Please_, say no more."

They both glanced through the glass at Connor, who happened to look up at that moment. His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Believe me, you had a better time with Mama Del."

"I don't know. We spent a full hour discussing her planter's warts."

Murphy cringed. "That is one of her favorite topics."

"Well, once I let slip that I'm a medic, she started taking off her shoes to show me." Annie shifted away from him slightly as Connor came back inside to join them. "Luckily, I was rescued just in time."

"Rescued by whom?" Connor asked innocently.

Annie tucked a stray hair behind her ear, her cheeks coloring. "Uh, J—Detective Beckman, actually."

Murphy gritted his teeth. That was probably when she'd asked him out.

"Gosh, he's one swell guy," Connor said. "Did he make any progress yesterday? Find any murderers roaming the cemetery?"

Murphy gave him a _back off_ look, but Connor only smiled, as if to say, _I'm just making conversation!_ It was the same smile that usually came right after last call, and right before Doc hollered for them to take it outside.

Annie's back stiffened, but her smile remained in place. "No murderers that I'm aware of. Now, Murphy-"

"Are you sure?" Connor asked. Her face reddened with the interruption. "What about after the funeral? Maybe after hours? I know how Beckman likes to take his work home with him."

Murphy could see Annie's jaw muscle flex, though she never let go of the smile. "If Detective Beckman finds any murderers, Connor, I'm sure I'll be the first to know."

"I'm _sure_ you will."

Behind him, Jake's workroom curtain peeked open. "Annabelle – would you grab me some more paper towels?"

Annie turned on her heel, disappearing down the hall to the office, and Connor started punching buttons on the phone. "You need to listen to this message from Callaghan."

"First you need to tell me what the hell that was all about."

Connor raised an eyebrow.

Murphy raised one back.

Connor closed the phone. "Fuck it, Murph…" He rubbed his fingers over his lips. "There is something I haven't told you."

"Oh? Fucking shock me some more."

Connor sighed. "Don't get mad, all right?"

Murphy's stomach turned, like he was headed for a drop-off and had no way to stop it. "Too late."

Connor ran a hand through his hair. "Look, the thing is…" He glanced down the hallway, keeping his voice low. "I saw her last night, with Beckman. Remember on the drive home, when we saw those flashing lights outside Lucky's? The two of them were standing on the corner together…holding hands."

Connor waited for a reaction, but the sudden weight on Murphy's chest seemed to be having an effect on his throat as well. Finally he managed a "So?"

"Holding hands like a fucking happy couple, Murph, not like law enforcement and…EMS. So now, why's she in here flirting with you like you're her fucking prom date?"

Murphy didn't like the question, and he doubted he'd like the answer any more. Annie's footfalls echoed up the hallway.

"Are you sure it was-"

"Yes, I'm sure it was them!" Connor hissed. "For Christ's sake, Murph, do you think I would tell you if I wasn't fucking sure?"

Murphy stared unseeing at the plywood countertop, his head buzzing. He took a breath, and then carefully boxed up the fire inside of him, tightly and compactly. His pulse pounded, but when he slipped his hands in his pockets it was slow and easy. All under control.

"She's a single woman, Con," he said calmly. "We already knew she asked him out for coffee. If it turned into a proper date—it's none of my business."

Connor straightened. "Fine," he said evenly. "But even Smecker thinks Beckman's a threat—and not just to us. If he's got Annie wrapped up in his agenda somehow…"

Murphy nodded, accepting Connor's point, and the point he hadn't made as well: that Annie might very well have her own agenda, and there was no way of knowing how Murphy and Connor fit into it. Still, the thought of Annie being used against him—the thought of Annie being used for _anything_—ignited something else in him that wasn't as easy to contain.

Annie hovered in the lobby, straightening magazines, telling Zeke to keep his shoes off the couch.

"So, what's this message?" he asked Connor.

Connor frowned and cued up the voicemail, then handed the phone to Murphy. Seamus's thick Irish brogue blared at full volume.

"Jesus Christ," Murphy swore, trying to find the speakerphone button that Connor must have accidentally pushed.

"_Afternoon, lads. Sorry to do this to you, but I have to push back our ten o'clock meetin' time. Business has been…a bit crazy." He gave an odd laugh. "The bar's still open to you any time, o' course. I'll get back to you next week. You know what they say: anocht, anocht."_

Murphy found the button to shut off the speaker just as the message ended.

_Tonight, tonight_? What was that supposed to mean?

He hit the button to repeat the message. "Ten o'clock?" he asked Connor.

Connor shook his head. They'd never made an appointment.

Murphy looked at his brother, a chill seeping into his bones. This wasn't the way Seamus Callaghan did business. Something was wrong.

"_Anocht_," Connor said, echoing their friend's troubling Gaelic. They'd check it out tonight. "I'm going to try him again, see if I can't get him to pick up." He sounded doubtful.

As soon as the shop door swung shut, Annie asked, "A friend from home?"

Amazing how a simple scrap of information could change the way Murphy's ears picked up her tone. Five minutes ago it was cheery. Now it was suspect. "Well, you heard his accent," he said.

"Do I know him?"

"I don't think so," Murphy looked at her, wanting to ask how many Irishmen she happened to know. "How are you feeling, Ann?" he asked instead. "Did you get a chance to take it easy last night?"

"I did, thanks." She crossed her arms carefully over her chest. "I am a little sore," she added with a small smile. "And a little…sorry. Actually a lot sorry." She looked up at him, her expression open, her eyes _repentant_—Jesus Christ, he was _not_ falling for this.

She folded her hands in front of her on the counter, neatly. Nervously.

He scratched an eyebrow, glad he was the only MacManus watching this show.

"I…I shouldn't have said that stuff about Roc, about you and Connor." The words rushed out of her quickly, so quickly that it took a moment to process.

Something heavy dropped inside him. He didn't want to believe Annie could fake something like this.

She took a deep breath. "I didn't mean it the way it sounded."

There was something not quite complete about her apology, which was what convinced him it was real. "It's all right," he heard himself say. "I can't blame you for how you feel." _I can't blame you for wanting justice, for feeling like every day Roc's murderer walks free is another day you failed him as a friend._

God, if only he could tell her! That it was already done. That they'd already dropped the bastard's soul into hell, and a few more besides.

"Annie-" Murphy stopped at the sound of giggling; the girls from the couches had come over to schedule appointments. He waited while Annie penciled them in, wondering if he should leave now and cut his losses. Praying Connor didn't come back in to get him.

"Did you get your ribs checked out?" he asked when the girls left.

She nodded, closing the appointment calendar. "A lot of bruising on the bones, but no fractures."

"Feels about the same, in my experience. Annie…" He waited until she looked at him, which seemed surprisingly hard for her to do. "I'm sorry, too. The uh, collision – I didn't think we'd get hurt."

She shrugged. "It's not so bad as long as I don't bend or twist."

"Or laugh."

"Or sneeze or cough, or run. Or, you know, breathe." They both smiled. "How's your head?" she asked, spying the fresh scab above his eyebrow. "That looks new. That wasn't from the crash?"

Murphy frowned. Why was she always asking questions she knew he wasn't going to answer?

The silence stretched out.

"Another fire hydrant?"

"Something like that." He tapped the toe of his boot against the counter, feeling whatever had just passed between them dissolve into nothing. "So, six to eight weeks for the ribs?"

Annie drew a pencil from the jar by the light box, rolling it slowly between her fingers. "Yep. Then I'll be back in shape for another high speed chase." She glanced at Connor, who was leaning against the window, smoking a cigarette. "Oh, yeah," she added, biting on the end of the pencil. "Remember that license plate?"

Murphy's heart tripped on itself. _That_ license plate?

"I did see the whole thing. I was just being a bitch because I was so mad at you."

He forced a chuckle, rubbing his neck as it began to sweat. "I thought you were being a bitch because you were gettin' sick."

"You were driving like a maniac!"

"You were langered off your arse."

"YES. Also that." She huffed a sigh and started to write, and Murphy's heart sank. She'd memorized the number. Something she never would have managed to do drunk, in a speeding vehicle, had he not goaded her into it. Now it was ingrained in her brain—while even as they stood here, someone might be calling it in, reporting the abandoned beater Cutlass with the decomposing Mafioso inside.

Then he remembered something else: that she'd threatened to have Beckman run it. She could have given it to him last night.

Annie said something about lucky numbers, but he couldn't hear it over the alarms and sirens blaring in his mind.

"Here," she said, offering him the scrap of paper. "_My_ peace offering."

He held up a hand, refusing. "Don't worry about it, Ann. It's a dead issue." Eh.

"But you wrecked your car for this." She pushed the paper at him, poking him with it. "You broke my _ribs_ for this."

"Bruised." Her nostrils flared and he backed up a step. "Listen, I gotta run. Tell Jake I said sorry about yesterday."

Annie crumpled the paper. "Tell him yourself."

Murphy glanced across the lobby. The gun was still buzzing behind Jake's curtain; that conversation could wait for another day. Annie glared at him, her jaw set. "Fine," he said, and strode to the door, passing Zeke on the couch. "See you around, man."

"Later, Murphy," Zeke said.

He heard the LTD growl to life outside.

"Murphy, wait." Annie's shoes squeaked on the tile.

He sighed, closing his eyes, but not taking his hand off the door handle. He'd had enough of this rollercoaster for one day.

"I'm sorry." She was right next to him.

"I don't know what you want from me, Annie."

"Just one more minute." Like an idiot, he met her eyes. "Please?" He watched in slow motion as she took his hand, lifting it from the door, tugging him gently back the way he'd come. Her skin was incredibly warm against his. He looked down at their joined hands, and Beckman invaded his thoughts like a virus. Was this how it had begun last night? Or had the detective made the first move? He didn't know which was worse.

"There's something I want to show you," she said. He let her lead him back to the counter, where she hesitated, looking at their joined hands briefly before letting go to take a red folder from the rack by the light box.

"It's not finished yet," she said, "and I didn't know exactly what you had in mind, but after you came in that day, I…sort of threw something together." She still hadn't opened the folder. Gently, he pulled it from her fingers and opened it. There was a single white page inside, with a design in the center that he'd never seen before. And yet, he knew immediately what it was.

Inside his chest, his heart flipped over.

"It's for Roc, isn't it?"

Annie bit her lip. "It's not finished yet."

"What are these letters here, Latin? I don't recognize it."

"It's just gibberish, placeholders. I figured you and Connor would want to write the words."

Murphy rubbed his fingers over his mouth.

"If you don't like it, it's totally not a big deal."

"How long have you been working on this?"

"Like I said, it's just something I threw together." She tried to take the page back, but he turned away, out of her reach, studying the details, the careful shading, the balance and the symmetry. He knew exactly what Roc would say: _Fucking bad-ass shit, man_.

"You didn't have to do this."

She reached for the page again, and this time he let her have it. She quickly slipped it back in the folder. "Listen, it's just one idea, so don't feel obligated to-"

"It's perfect, Ann." He caught her hand before she could put the folder back in the rack, feeling the damp of sweat on her palm. "Can I have it, to show Con?"

She nodded, biting her lip again.

Without thinking, he cupped her jaw with his free hand, smoothing his thumb over where her teeth pressed into her lip. Her skin was feverishly warm, and he could feel the pulse in her neck drumming beneath his fingertips.

A throat cleared. The buzz of Jake's tattoo gun carried faintly to his ears. Then Connor's voice cut through, dropping the guillotine of reality: "Hey, Murph. _Time to hit the road_."

Annie jumped, tucking invisible stray hairs behind both ears. "Okay," she said loudly. "Thanks again for bringing my phone."

Connor stood at the door, stone-faced. Zeke looked on with an ear-to-pierced-ear grin.

Murphy flexed his burning fingers, not sure of anything except that he wasn't leaving here without that red folder. "Thank you for this, Ann."

"You're welcome," she whispered. "You guys be careful out there."

.

.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the wait! Hope you're all enjoying summer so far, and remember your feedback is welcome any time! (and may even get you faster updates…just sayin'.)


	27. Callaghan's

_**Author's Note:**__ Many, many thanks to goddessLaughs and pitbullsrok. _

**[Chapter 27: Callaghan's]**

_._

* * *

"She's playin' you," Connor declared, switching on the headlights. "Like a bad movie that we already know the ending to."

Murphy sank into the passenger seat with a sigh. "You don't know that."

Connor looked at him, then turned his attention back to the road. "I know what I saw last night, and I know what I saw just now. Looked like you were about to-"

"I wasn't." Not with my brother waiting around to interfere. "She's talking to Beckman because she's trying to help him find the Saints, for Roc. It's not personal, not from her end." Probably. Hopefully.

Connor stopped for a light. "Not to sound like an ass, but is that your brain talking or….?"

"She's aiming for a truce, Con." Murphy slipped Annie's tattoo design from the red folder. "Check this out."

Connor took the page. "Damn." He flipped the visor up for more light, and held the paper with both hands. "_Damn."_

"Tell me about it."

"Did you ask her to do this?"

"No, she just handed it over."

"People pay good money for this."

"I know."

Of course Murphy knew. They both knew—even if Jake never let them pay it, the going rate was more than mere pocket change. "Do you see what I'm saying?" He found his pack of smokes and tapped one out.

Connor frowned. "So what are you going to do?"

Murphy shrugged and lit up.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." Connor handed the design back to him. "By the way, Smecker called earlier. He was real jumpy about talking over the phone, so I couldn't tell him anything. We'll meet up tomorrow – he'll call later with a time and place."

Murphy blew a smoke ring that got sucked out the window. "Grand. Maybe tonight Seamus will give us some dirt on Mancini, and we can finally start piecing this shit together."

They hit Dooley's Sports Pub for pastrami and the evening news. No mention yet of Mr. Vigoda's untimely demise.

Murphy suggested they hit Callaghan's early, but Connor wanted to stop by McGinty's first, to see if the old man had noticed anyone acting strange on Friday night. Doc told them that the uniforms had tipped better than all his other customers combined, and refused to voice any complaints. Then he swore at Murphy and made him refill the ice. Connor and Paulette argued for an hour about whether cops were good or bad for business, whether it was necessary to call 911 if a fight ever broke out between cops who'd been drinking, and whether Murphy was dating Annie again, if he should be, and the likelihood of the theoretical renewed relationship ending badly.

It was unanimously agreed that Murphy was headed for unavoidable heartbreak. Murphy thanked them for their concern and told his brother in no uncertain Gaelic that if they didn't leave now, Murphy had no problem throwing him into a mirror and lighting his ass on fire.

Connor didn't stop smiling all the way to Callaghan's.

Callaghan's was busier than usual for a Sunday night, the reason being broadcast brightly on the flat-screen: the Old Firm Derby, a soccer match between the Celtic and the Rangers, two Scottish Premiere League teams that gave the American term _cross-town rivals_ an entirely new meaning. Back home their uncle Siebel's pub would be bursting, and half of their family bruised and bloody before the night was over. The thought made Murphy strangely homesick-God, he lived a dysfunctional life.

Despite the nearly full house, Seamus himself was nowhere to be seen. Connor guessed that the two tight-shirted waitresses working the tables were fully earning their tuition money. Seamus's right-hand woman Rhonwen was running the bar. She'd been attached to Seamus in one way or another for as long as Murphy could remember, although he and Connor often debated her exact status as business partner versus girlfriend versus assistant versus employee-with-benefits. For the moment, titles held zero interest for Murphy. If something was awry with Seamus, it was Rhonwen who could tell them.

He didn't think she'd seen them, as she was busy taking payment from a couple at the far end of the bar, but as soon as the couple left, she turned to the Guinness tap, poured two pints, and delivered them straight to Connor and Murphy with a smile.

"You're a mind-reader, love," Connor said. "How do you do it?"

"Oh, you're not so hard to read," she said. "Like a children's book, really."

"You're not working the taps alone, are you?" Murphy asked.

Rhonwen looked down, wiping her hands on her green apron. "Aye, just me and the girls tonight." There was something uneven in her voice.

"When it's Celtic and Rangers?" Connor's shock was sincere. "The Pope himself will be watching this match."

"Where's your man?" Murphy asked. "We've been trying to reach him."

"He's out. On business."

"Really? His message made it sound like we could find him here _anocht_."

She met Murphy's eyes and for a brief moment, he was sure he'd hit on something. Then the Rangers missed a beauty of a shot and the crowd of game-watchers exploded. Someone's beer toppled, causing elbows to fly as people moved away from the spill. Rhonwen strode over with the towel. When the mess was mopped up, people were already starting to flag her down.

Connor swirled his beer, watching her. "Did you notice how much make-up she's wearing?"

"Aye, I can hardly see her freckles at all." Which was a shame, since her freckles were quite charmingly sexy.

"Not just on her face, it's on her neck as well."

Murphy squinted in the low, amber light. "That's not good." When a woman wore make-up on her neck, it was to cover something – either hickies or bruises. Without making too many presumptions about his friends – instinct told him it wasn't hickies.

Connor rubbed an eyebrow. "Seamus is a powerful man. I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end when he gets angry."

"He would never touch her. Not like that."

They watched her pour four pint glasses and carry them all to the far end of the bar in one hand. Connor sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Then who did?"

The game-watching crowd grew steadily larger and louder as the night wore on. One of the perky undergrads brought them more beer just before half-time. Ten o' clock, the time Seamus had mentioned in his message, came and went without incident. The Celtic had blocked two goals in the second half by the time Rhonwen approached again.

"Another round?" she asked, clearing their empty glasses.

"We were about to go for a smoke," Murphy told her. "Join us?"

Rhonwen blew out a breath. She'd probably been on her feet for hours. "Aye. That sounds great." She turned the bar over to one of the other girls, and came around to meet them. She started toward the front door.

"Let's go out back," Connor suggested. "It's a bit quieter."

Rhonwen's face darkened, and she shot an edgy look in that direction. The rear exit was right next to the door to Seamus's office.

"Better not," she said. "The light's burnt out in the alley. It's best not to be alone out there after dark."

The worry line between Connor's eyebrows deepened. "You're not alone," he said.

"Out front's fine," she said quickly, breezing past them. They had no choice but to wind their way through the tables behind her.

Outside the packed pub, the cold wind sliced through their jackets. Murphy gave Rhonwen a light and they all smoked in silence for a few minutes. He tried his best not to stare, but the girl's fingers shook terribly with every drag.

Connor noticed it, too. "Rhonnie, if something ever went wrong…" he said carefully, "I mean, if you ever needed anything for Seamus, or for yourself—you'd come to us, wouldn't you?"

She took a long drag. "Nothing's wrong. I told you, Seamus is out on business."

Murphy shared a look with Connor. "We know. We're just putting it out there—you can call us anytime. We'll back you up, no questions."

Rhonwen stared at the glowing tip of her cigarette. When she looked up her eyes were glossy. She turned her face to the wind, blinking. "Thanks, guys, but like I said—everything's fine." She put a hand to the door, then turned around. "Seamus ought to be around tomorrow."

"We'll be back then," Connor told her.

She smiled, straightened her apron, and then slipped back into the pub.

"Well, fuck," Murphy said, glancing up at the small security camera mounted on the brick wall above a wrought iron sconce. He wondered if it was a simple live feed, or if Seamus recorded the footage so he could play it back later. "Want to check the alley?"

"Aye. Did you bring the purse pistol?"

"Just the .45. The fucking ammo is what I came here for."

"We'll keep it to recon for now. Any trouble, it'll make a fine blunt object."

"Any trouble, you fucking shoot the bastards, got it?"

Connor's grin disappeared into shadow as they turned down the alley from the street. They drew their weapons and made their way slowly and quietly, allowing their eyes to adjust.

They reached the back alley behind the pub and Murphy decided it looked a whole lot like the back alley behind a pub. Empty crates, cigarette butts, a few puddles of dirty run-off, and a half-full dumpster. Connor pointed into the shadow of a neighboring building. Murphy willed his eyes to focus. The hubcaps of a large black sedan – maybe a Caddie—gleamed in the moonlight. There was no way to tell if anyone was inside. They waited several minutes, watching to see if there was any movement, listening for any sound.

Nothing.

At long last, Connor tapped his arm and they snuck back up to the street the way they'd come.

"I don't like it," Connor said. "But Seamus and Rhonnie have been doing this for years. Who knows, maybe this is normal for them."

"Seamus's message wasn't normal."

Connor unlocked the LTD, answering Murphy over the top. "I know. I just don't know what else we can do tonight."

Murphy got in and lit two cigarettes, handing one to his brother. "We'll come back tomorrow, after we talk to Smecker. Rhonwen said Seamus would be back. If he's not…"

"If he's not, then we find a way to get her talking."

.

.


	28. Bark Park

**[Chapter 28: Bark Park]**

**.**

**.**

_Monday morning…_

* * *

The morning shift at Nolan's started far too early. Murphy worked on auto-pilot, trimming the fat from the slabs of raw meat while his brain pin-balled.

Why had they still not heard from Seamus? Murphy had no real desire to insert himself into another man's private outlaw world; managing his own was enough of a challenge. But targeting Mancini was going to require more than the government intel that Smecker would give them. To have any real leverage face-to-face against the mob kingpin, they needed insider perspective that only a black market competitor like Seamus could provide.

Murphy heaved a particularly bloody hindquarter onto the cutting table. Of course, a _mob_ insider's perspective would be even more valuable, but since the one they'd finally hunted down had inconveniently pill-popped himself to death—insiders of any kind were looking pretty damn good.

Murphy pulled his knife smoothly through the cold beef flesh. Bobby fucking Vigoda. Old enough to know he was a worthless pawn; dumb enough to believe that could ever change. Dead enough to put one hell of a hitch in their plans. Smecker was going to kill them. He checked the clock above the loading doors. Half-way to execution time.

He set the flank aside and began to separate the loin from the round. Cutting meat well was much more of an art than people realized, and he liked to think he could do it better than most. Was it pointless to waste energy on something no one on earth would ever appreciate? Probably. So why do it? Because the energy had to go somewhere, he figured. Certainly not because, as Annie had once told him, there was an artist lurking deep within him, struggling to get out by any means necessary. He paused mid-slice, remembering with a smile how that particular exchange had turned out, or rather, what it had turned into.

With a final flick of the wrist, he finished the cut, then placed the perfectly shaped loin aside for packaging. Annie. A kinder man would walk away from her now, for all their sakes. But God hadn't called him to be kind, and no matter how they all might wish it otherwise, Annie's connections made her indispensable. Yet he had no more pictures to search for, or albums or cell phones to return. No more cover stories, no more excuses. From this point, any contact would be purely personal.

He heaved another hindquarter onto the table. Christ, these must be dense slabs. His heart was racing like he'd just one-hand carried the whole fucking cow. Time for a break. He signaled Connor, shook off his bloody gloves, and spent the next ten minutes deciding that nicotine sure didn't satisfy the way it used to.

Two hours later when the shift bell rang, he and Conner raced to wash up and clock out. They grabbed gyros to go, and ate them on the way to the South Boston Bark Park, where they arrived early for their meet with Smecker.

Two minutes of watching the dogs and their owners and Murphy understood why Smecker had suggested the place. People paid attention to their dogs, to other people's dogs, to what their dogs were doing to other people's dogs and vice versa. Without a dog, you were almost invisible.

The morning cloud cover was quickly burning off, and they headed for the shade of a maple that hadn't yet lost all its colored leaves. Making their way around a grassy expanse being used for Frisbee fetching, they spotted Greenly and Smecker approaching.

"Well?" Smecker greeted them, efficient as always.

"Well," Murphy said, "we got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"

"Bad."

"We couldn't get a name," Connor said with true regret. "But we brought you a little present." He handed Smecker Vigoda's cell phone. "Check the last call. Trace the number, you'll find your man."

Smecker looked torn between delight and the struggle not to get his hopes up. "Probably a burner. Seriously, no name?"

"The _Associate_," Murphy told him. "Vigoda was just the hired hand, on loan from Mancini."

"The Associate," Smecker repeated. "Interesting, considering the legal ties. And he has enough clout to score favors from the Man."

"My guess is you'll find his name on Scuderi's list," Connor said. "Did your tech man get anything off the laptop?"

"No dice. He determined that the last program running was Microsoft Word, but the file itself was unrecoverable."

Greenly made a face. "Between the bullet holes and the rainwater, we were already fucked. Don't even get me started on the janitor or that Frankie Hayes kid. I hate it when we know everybody's connected but we can't figure out how, and we can't _prove_ it. What I wouldn't do to get my hands on that fucking list!"

"I was hoping for good news in that department," Smecker said to Connor. "Have you gotten anything from Leah?"

"Sorry," Murphy said. "Con blew that chance to kingdom come."

"She saw Murph give the paint can to Duffy, after I promised her we wouldn't." Connor gave him a dark look. "She won't answer my calls."

"All right," Smecker said, taking the news in stride, "What about Annie? You still have the partner connection to exploit."

Everyone looked at Murphy. "I'm on it," he assured them. "She's coming around, now that I explained about the funeral." He turned to Connor. "By the way, you got food poisoning and had to spend the day on the shitter."

Smecker seemed pleased enough with that answer. Connor, rather less pleased.

"Let's talk about real work," Connor said to Greenly. "You were looking into cops that might have trashed Scuderi's briefcase?"

"We got Escobar, Trazzi, Kelley, and Wilcox arriving within minutes. Far as we can tell, every one of them's clean. No questionable connections, no threats of divorce, foreclosure, other personal disasters making them desperate for easy money. Dolly and Duffy showed up soon after all them, and they're pretty sure everybody was on the up and up from that point."

"Pretty sure?" Connor asked. "Not to be a hard ass, but you cops were looking for perps, not pointing flashlights at each other."

Greenly gave a single nod. "This is the starting point, guys. We're gonna branch out from here."

"What about Chaffey?" Connor asked. "I keep hearing how he was first on the scene."

"Mike?" Greenly chuckled. "Mike's about the last guy you need to worry about. He's kinda got this thing—what do they call it? Florence Nightingale syndrome?"

"That's a pop culture-invented label," Smecker said dryly, "not an actual medical term."

Greenly raised both hands. "Who gives a shit? He rescued the damsel, now he's got a fucking grade school crush on her." He turned to Connor, whose crossed arms were flexing. "Bottom line, Mike Chaffey's in our corner."

"I know he's your friend, Greenly," Connor said. "That doesn't mean-"

"They're _all_ my friends."

"Look, Connor, Murphy," Smecker put on the face Murphy recognized from their first interview with him—friendly, placating, diplomatic. "We're not lining up the usual suspects here. These are born and breds. Granted, some of them are imports; some are transfers, like Beckman-"

Greenly interrupted, "But some of these guys are third or fourth generation uniforms. Mitchell's great-great granddaddy was walking the beat for the fucking Tea Party—the _first_ one! Guys don't just fuck up shit like that."

"Sometimes they do," Smecker said thoughtfully. "We're not ruling anyone out yet."

"I hear you, man," Murphy said to Greenly. "They're stand-up guys."

"And so are the dozen who were throwing back with us at Doc's," Connor said. "Except one o' them sicced a mafioso on Leah."

For once Greenly seemed at a loss for words. "I'm still working through all the officers' phone records," he muttered. "I'll let you know what I find."

"And the medics?"

"Fourteen medics and EMTs came to dinner on Friday," Smecker said, dodging an errant Frisbee. "Nine continued on to McGinty's to witness our heroine's little sideshow act. For the time being, we'll eliminate John Jowarski, Felix Ortega, Annie, and Leah herself, which leaves us with five potential moles."

"One of them didn't make any calls after arriving at the bar. Two called home. Two sent texts and made other calls. We're still looking into those contacts."

Murphy felt a sigh escape him. He was getting pretty tired of the words _still looking into…_

Smecker arched a brow. "We're trying to keep this all under the radar so the man—or woman—in question doesn't get spooked. Of course, checking all these cell records is only helpful if the call that tipped off Vigoda was actually made from a mobile phone."

"It was," Connor said. "You'll find it in his call log. What we don't know is if the bastard giving the orders was the same person that witnessed Leah's memory stunt in the bar. Could be he's got a mole, in which case we're looking for two lying bastards, not just one."

Greenly kicked the base of a fence post. "If they're tag-teaming it, then alibis are gonna mean zilch. We'll need something solid to bring Bobby in on. If he knows we can't hold him, he's got no reason to talk."

Connor gave Murphy a look, reminding him he'd already won the honor of delivering the news.

A fluorescent green Frisbee whizzed by, and Greenly winced as it collided with his shin. A gleeful black and white Australian Shepard bounded up, stopping abruptly three feet away. Greenly reached out to pet it. The animal stilled suddenly, its tail dropping and its ears flattening against its head.

Murphy knelt and held out his hand, palm down. Cautiously, the dog approached, first sniffing his fingers, and then licking them eagerly.

"Whoa now, hey."

The dog barreled into him, sniffing from his forearms to his knees, and then fixating on his boots. It would have knocked him on his ass if he hadn't snagged the Frisbee from Greenly and flung it back to the approaching owner.

With what could only be described as extreme doggie reluctance, the animal gave Murphy's boot one last snuffle and trotted away.

Connor laughed. "That'll teach you to cut corners washin' up."

"I'd steer clear of black lights if I were you," Smecker said. "Not much of a dog person, Greenly?"

"It's the suit," he grumbled. "In my uniform, he'd have been drooling all over me."

And that's when it hit Murphy.

"A uniform. That's it, that's the connection." How could they have not thought of this sooner?

Smecker gave him the _Explain yourself_ look.

"The janitor, the night Scuderi's office burned. He did let his killer in, and it wasn't someone who worked there. It was the mole."

Connor rubbed his chin, getting the picture. "An officer in uniform, flashing a badge."

"Or a medic," Greenly said pointedly.

Smecker crossed his arms. "Risky. And ruthless. It would mean the person in question had planned to kill the janitor from the get-go. Kandikuri's position made him an automatic liability."

"Cold and heartless," Connor said. "Sounds like the right bastard."

Murphy tried to keep his tone impartial. "Your man Beckman was chatting on his phone a good lot of the time on Friday."

Connor shot him a look. "_Ná tagair d'aon duine ar leith."_

Murphy ignored him. "You were there," he said to Greenly.

Smecker and Greenly exchanged a glance, apparently in no need of a translator for Connor's loaded Gaelic warning.

"Yeah," Greenly said, "and I _made_ a couple of those calls to him, and so did Smecker. Throwing him a bone to fetch, remember?"

"It won't hurt you to look into him along with the others."

Smecker spent a moment adjusting the cuffs of his shirtsleeves, and then turned to Greenly. "Can you check Beckman's records without tipping him off?"

"It won't be easy. He's as paranoid as you, and I get the feeling he's watching our every move."

Smecker frowned. "Yeah, I do too. Don't use department resources. I've got a buddy in the Bureau can tap in without leaving a trail."

"You should have him run the other numbers in Vigoda's phone, too. See if anyone he was talking to has also been in contact with the Associate. Vigoda was a tool, but he served a purpose – maybe he'll be replaced."

Smecker's head tilted. "Replaced?"

Conner's hands dug into his coat pockets.

Murphy felt himself grimace. "The good news I mentioned…"

Smecker's stare could've carved ice. "Let me guess. There's one less evil man walking the streets today."

Connor quirked a half-smile. "Look, we know it wasn't part of the plan, but-"

Greenly threw his head back, "Fuck, Connor!"

Smecker started to pace toward the grassy expanse, running a hand through his hair.

"Vigoda was the missing link," Greenly moaned. "He was the fucking key!"

"It's not what you think," Murphy said. "We didn't pull any triggers."

Smecker turned. "Keep your damn voice down, MacManus."

For a split second, Murphy felt what it must be like to be one of his deputies. It raised every hair on the back of his neck.

It was a very long time before anyone spoke.

Finally, Connor took a breath and gave Smecker the basic run-down. The agent's face remained impassive; he could have been listening to the weather report.

His only question when Connor finished was: "And you left him to rot where, exactly?"

"Gravel lot," Murphy said coolly, "by the harbor. Bit surprised no one's found him yet."

Smecker's cell phone rang. He looked surprised at the number on the screen, and answered it quickly, pacing away from them.

Greenly looked from Murphy to Connor, shaking his head. Murphy rolled his eyes. Smecker hung up and strode back over; the caller must not have had much to say.

"Time to go shovel the shit," he said to Greenly. He gave a wide, disturbing smile to Connor and Murphy. "That was Leah," he announced. "She was calling from a gravel lot by the harbor. Would anyone care to guess what she found?"

Murphy closed his eyes. So Leah had found the body. That meant Annie was there as well. What were the fucking chances? The world around him began to spin a fraction faster.

"You'd better go," Connor said. "Media's gonna blitz-we didn't treat this one any different from the others."

Smecker nodded, his fingers flying over his phone's tiny keyboard, sending text messages. "Pennies, got it."

"You're going to be busy for a while," Murphy said. "Can we pick up the file later from Dolly or Duffy?"

Smecker thin lips pressed together. "Let's talk about it tonight, okay? After. Believe me, once Vigoda's connections start coming to light, Mancini's going be one hot ticket."

"Bad idea," Connor said, "Mancini is the _only one_ who can ID this Associate. You parade him down to the station for questioning – there's no way in hell you're going to keep that quiet from your inside man."

"We can't risk spookin' the mole," Greenly agreed.

Smecker silenced Greenly with a look. "All of you listen to me." He sucked in a breath through his nose, his expression more hawk-like than ever. "Carmen Mancini is not the dynamic figurehead that Papa Joe was. He's a very private and very paranoid. Some would say untouchable—he's been arrested but never convicted even more times than Papa Joe. Nobody moves any weapons of any kind in the city proper unless it's with his blessing, yet neither the city police, nor the Staties, nor the Bureau has ever gotten a trafficking charge to stick."

"All the more reason to color outside the lines," Murphy said. "Where's he live?"

"To be honest," Smecker said, "my dossier on Mancini is pretty out of date since I began a rather more pressing investigation last spring."

"Dolly can freshen it up. He's been digging around North End all week, right?"

Smecker brushed his coat back to put both hands on his hips. "I don't feel comfortable rushing into this, guys. Let's think this through-"

"Enough thinking!" Murphy said, on the brink of laughter. "Christ help me, man, you sound like my ma. We can handle this guy."

"Like you handled Yakavetta?" Smecker's sharp eyes flashed in a way that Murphy had never seen before. "You boys survived that little apocalypse thanks to the grace of your friggin' God, and _me_. If your papa didn't hadn't _happened_ to be the mob's go-to maniacal hit-man—I mean, _what are the fucking chances?_ You'd be sleeping in a crypt down in Roslindale just like your buddy Rocco. Yakavetta would still be alive and kicking and avoiding conviction as usual, and the story of the Saints of South Boston would be a lot fucking shorter than it is right now."

The freight train in Murphy's head threatened to overtake him. The muscles of his neck and back hardened, as if forged in steel. He did not look at Connor, nor did Connor look at him; there was no need. On the walk-way beside them, a passing dog let go a low growl. None of them moved. Greenly's eyes, wide as Frisbees, darted back and forth between Smecker and Murphy and Connor.

Smecker sighed and removed his sunglasses to reveal weathered, weary eyes. "I'm sorry if the truth hurts, I really am. But let's not pretend that your success thus far has been built on much more than nerve and bravado and blind damn luck."

"Or, you know, God's fucking will," Murphy said.

Smecker's mouth creased. Murphy wanted to punch him.

"It's walking by faith," Connor said. "I know you think we're nuts. I don't expect you to understand. We do what we have to do."

"But you have _us_ now. A whole team on your side, with resources and training you've never had access to before. There's no reason to take unnecessary risks. We have the same goals—let's work towards them together, in the smartest-"

"And slowest way possible," Murphy finished for him. "Of course things would be easier if you and your boys took care of it! If your way was working, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now, because we'd have never had to take matters into our own hands."

Smecker looked at each of them, and then down at the sunglasses in his hand. He pulled a small white cloth from his jacket pocket and began to clean the lenses.

Murphy met his brother's eyes. There was a lot more he wanted to say. Connor shook his head slightly and addressed the agent himself. "You're a good man, Paul, and I hope you'll hear this knowing that I mean no disrespect—but we're asking for your dossier. Not for your permission."

The word broke like a clap of thunder.

Smecker's fingers went still. "I do understand," he said crisply. "At the moment, I'm not prepared to offer either." He slipped the sunglasses back on. "We'll talk tonight."

He started across the grass.

"Greenly," Murphy said before the detective could follow. "You know this is the best way."

Greenly gave a half shrug. For a six-foot-tall man, he could look incredibly vulnerable.

"No mistakes this time," Connor said. "We need every advantage we can get."

"I know," Greenly said, sounding miserable.

"We'll be in touch," Murphy told him. Greenly nodded, jogging to catch up with the agent.

Neither MacManus had much to say on the drive home. Murphy took the phone and tried Seamus's mobile number again, as well as the pub's land line. Nothing but voicemail.

_Seamus, where are you?_

_._

_._

* * *

_Connor's Gaelic: "Don't make this personal."_

_**Author's Note**__: Big thanks to goddess & to pitbullsrok, and to all you readers out there for sticking with this story! There is still much more to come :)_


	29. Discovery, PART 1

**[Chapter 29: Discovery-Part One]**

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The dock worker held up his gauze-wrapped hand appraisingly. "That's the prettiest damn bandage I ever seen." Annie added a last strip of tape while he showed his arm to Leah. "Ain't she somethin'?"

"Oh, yes," Leah agreed, glancing at the bandage and then at her watch. "She's something all right."

"Are you sure you don't want to get an x-ray?" Annie asked the man. "There could be more damage that we're not seeing."

His weather-worn cheeks creased with a smile. "It won't get me back workin' any faster, sweetheart, and I ain't spending my lunch hour in a waiting room."

"Well, if you're sure…can I have you sign this form?" She helped him hold the pen with his good hand while Leah started up the ambulance.

"He could probably get worker's comp," Annie said, pulling her door closed and hiding the sharp pain it caused in her ribs. "But he'll never know if he doesn't try."

"He knows what his union tells him."

"But his union's supposed to work for him—they should be telling him to file a claim."

Leah shook her head in that familiar _Annie, you're so naïve_ kind of way. "Don't get me started. This town is more corrupt than even Hollywood makes it out to be."

"But, how do you know-"

"Nevermind," Leah snapped. "Let's just get some food and forget about it, all right?"

Annie pinched her lips shut, mentally adding _unions_ to the growing list of topics not to discuss with Leah when she was hungry.

They followed a cargo truck through rows of warehouses to a frontage road out by the waterfront. Suddenly Leah braked. The cab wall behind their seats was pummeled with flying gear from the other side. Leah rolled her window down and inhaled deeply.

"Oh God, yes," she breathed. "Do you smell that?"

Annie sniffed and felt her lip curl instinctively. "Eh. Hot dogs."

"_Fenway Franks, _Newbie, unless I'm wrong." She sniffed again. "Which I'm not. I didn't know they sold them out here!" Annie started to make her case for a Cobb salad, but Leah was already jogging over to the mobile wiener stand that had set up shop for the lunch hour. They were just on the border of where the shipping warehouses gave way to public waterfront access, parked in a gravel lot that would hold about a dozen cars. Right now only a few were occupied, but more cars were starting to pull in. Apparently the locals all knew about the Fenway Franks; even a few dog-walkers and joggers from the waterfront were making their way over.

Annie's stomach growled, defying her taste buds, and with a groan she grabbed a few bucks from her wallet.

Amazingly, there was a turkey version, or abomination as Leah called it. Annie took a handful of mustard packets and followed Leah and her _mmms_ of pleasure over to a weathered wooden bench next to the water.

"I can't believe you don't like Fenway Franks," Leah said around a mouthful.

"Do you know what they put in those things? Connor detailed it for me once, and I could never bring myself to eat them after that."

Leah raised an eyebrow. "And you think the turkey ones are any different? Bird scraps, left-overs, by-products…"

And just like that, Annie could no longer swallow. Leah watched her, laughter in her eyes, and Annie started giggling between gags. Just as she was spitting the half-chewed bite into a napkin, she inhaled mustard down the wrong pipe.

Instantly she was coughing, coughing, _coughing_, every breath like an axe-blow splitting her in half. She clenched her arms around her middle, doubling over, her eyes blurring with tears. Leah's hand pressed gently on her back.

"Take it easy," Leah said in her calm, matter-of-fact voice. "Slow breaths, as deep as you can."

_No shit, Sherlock!_ Annie wanted to shout, but since speaking wasn't happening any time soon she did as she was told. Slowly she was able to suppress the coughing into mild throat clearing. She moved out of Leah's reach as soon as she could stand upright.

Leah turned away, feigning interest in a passing commuter ferry.

Annie wiped her eyes quickly. God, this was humiliating. She'd thought she could hide the fact that she shouldn't be working—now _that_ was out the window. Leah would rat her out and Josh would cut her out of everything, just when she'd finally found a way in.

"You should have told me it was this bad," Leah said, still watching the ferry, "I would have given you that IV."

"Yeah, right!" Annie scoffed, wincing. "Ow. Don't make me laugh, seriously."

"I would have," Leah said with mild surprise. "How evil do you think I am?"

_How evil is there?_ Annie sent her a wary glare, but Leah actually looked sincere. "You saw the bruise when Murphy dragged me in. My shirt didn't unbutton itself."

"Uh, no – and _I_ didn't either. It was already open when he laid you on the couch."

Annie closed her eyes, feeling her cheeks flame. _Damn him_.

"So, yes, I checked it out," Leah went on, "but there was no way to tell the extent when you were dead to the world."

"When you couldn't hear me scream and cry."

"Exactly. And despite various claims to the contrary, I don't actually have x-ray vision. So-"

"Get to the point, Leah. Are you calling the hiring supervisor now, or do I get to finish out the shift?" She knew she wasn't being fair, but there was no point peeling the band-aid off slowly.

It was hard to hold Leah's gaze, and in the end, Annie looked away first, wiping a spot of mustard off the side of her finger.

"He doesn't work on Mondays," Leah said. "I guess we'll both have to suffer a little longer."

A woman in a jogging suit hurried up to them, dragging a yapping terrier by its leash.

"Excuse me," she said, trying to subdue on the dog, which was fixated on something near the parked cars. "All right, Lucky, that's enough! You're paramedics, right?"

"Can we help you?" Leah asked, brushing her hands on her pants.

"It's not me," the woman said. "There's a guy in one of those cars…I think you'd better come see."

The three of them followed Lucky, approaching a line of three cars from the front, while the woman explained how she'd been walking by, minding her own business when the dog started going berserk.

Annie was about to ask why when her eyes fell on the crumpled fender in the middle. It looked like it had been kicked by a giant. Her focus went into hyper-drive, the woman's voice fading into the background as Annie took in the hideous and undoubtedly familiar two-toned paint: faded burnt sienna and sour milk.

_It can't be the same one. It can't be._

"Over here," the woman said urgently. She and her dog hurried around to the driver's side door. Annie's feet turned to lead.

Murphy filled her mind: his dark intensity in the car that night, the anger in his voice, the fear she'd felt, even as drunk as she'd been, when he'd uttered those two little words: _Brace yourself_.

She wrapped both arms around her middle, feeling goose-bumps cover her skin. The woman beckoned to her, glancing at the dock workers that were wandering closer, looking curious.

That was when Annie noticed the dark-haired, heavily built man lying very, very still in the front seat.

It was nearly noon, and the sun shining directly overhead cast a shadow over the man's face. Heart heavy with dread, she slipped passed Leah, walking close enough to peer into the shadow and see the black-brown crust of dried blood covering the lower half of his face and neck. The rest of his skin had a bluish, waxy sheen. And there were small, round objects resting on his eyelids.

_The Saints_. The Saints had killed this man and left him to rot in his car, the very same car and probably the very same man that she and Murphy had chased across South Boston not two nights ago. Acid seeped into her gut.

"Annie-"

Leah's voice sounded strangled. Her face was white. Annie realized with a stab of alarm that her partner, for the perhaps the first time ever, didn't know what to do.

And suddenly Annie did.

"Can you get these people out of here?" she snapped. Heart thudding, not waiting for an answer, she reached for the door handle.

_Please, please, please let it be unlocked_.

It was.

The latch released without resistance. Leah and the dog owner, who apparently felt her discovery gave her some sort of authority, had started herding the small but growing crowd of onlookers a short distance back from the car. Knowing she'd have only seconds, Annie held her breath and leaned into the car, wincing as she slid her back against the steering wheel, trying not to look directly into the body's creepy, lifeless, half-closed eyes.

Had the woman noticed the coins? Had Leah? Even in shadow, the two pennies shone with an unnatural brilliance, self-righteous and superior in their putrid setting. Oh, how the media would eat it up.

A wave of hatred rolled though her, all the way to the tip of her little finger, which she used to flick first one, then both pennies off the dead eyelids and into the palm of her hand. It took less than five seconds. Then she backed out and sucked in fresh air, lightheaded from the burst of adrenaline and lack of oxygen. She closed the door and leaned against it for support, crossing her arms to hide her shaking hands, and the pennies still clenched inside.

"No pulse," she reported unnecessarily. Leah would never have allowed her the first look if there was any chance he was a live patient, and not just a corpse. Leah's radio was already in her hand. "Did you call it in?" Annie asked.

_[to be continued….]_


	30. Discovery, PART 2

**A/N**: _My dear readers - many apologies for waiting this long to explain an apparent incongruity in the setting of this story. While Troy Duffy's original BDS film was set in the late nineties, I have chosen to set 'Lights & Sirens' in present day. Why? Because it's easier for me. To you, the reader, all it really means is that the technology we have today does exist in the story (wide-spread cell phone and email use, availability of the Internet, texting, iPods, etc.) In other words, I am not accidentally messing with the rules of the 'verse; I am purposefully choosing convenience over strict loyalty to canon. Thanks for your understanding. _

_Here, finally, is PART 2, as promised…_

**[Chapter 30: Discovery, Part 2]**

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_[Continued from previous…]_

* * *

Leah looked at the radio, the seeing the entire rest of the day in fast-forward: the black-and-whites peeling in, the uniforms taping off the scene, the cameras flashing. The questions, then the _real_ questions once all their synapses started firing and they realized that _this was the one they were looking for_.

"I'll handle it," she said, re-clipping the radio to her belt and pulling out her cell phone instead. The business card she'd been carrying around for the last five days was still in the ambulance, but of course that didn't matter. She dialed the number from memory.

* * *

Annie watched Leah hang up her cell phone and check her watch, then the road.

"That didn't sound like Dispatch," Annie commented, slipping her hands in her pockets to keep them still.

"It wasn't," Leah said, beginning a slow circle around the car. A handful of dock workers were checking out something on the trunk of the car. They stepped away as Leah approached.

"So, who did you call? Chaffey?"

Leah scoffed quietly. "No, I didn't call Chaffey." She paused at the back window, peering inside. "I called the FBI. Paul Smecker."

Agent Smecker. Annie had seen his name mentioned in the Globe after the plaza killings. Although Beckman was the only one that had ever been quoted in a statement, Smecker's name was attached to nearly everything she'd heard about the Saints investigation. Last Wednesday, he was the one who'd called Leah back to the police station for additional questioning.

Annie looked around her at the bystanders, who were mostly keeping their distance. No one was close enough to hear. "Leah, why was this guy at your house the other night?"

Leah glanced up at her, and then continued her slow walk around the car. "I don't know."

"Does Connor? You must have talked about it."

"Not really."

"Come _on_. No guesses?"

Leah shrugged. She'd shut down like this the night of Scuderi's office fire, too. Annie scanned the street, knowing their time alone was short. Detectives would be swarming onto the scene any minute now. She walked around to Leah's other side, blocking her progression around the car.

"No speculation at all. You didn't mention the car to Agent Smecker—maybe I should speculate about that?"

"You want to know what we talked about?" Leah turned to face her, keeping her expression and body language casual, perhaps for the sake of the spectators. "We talked about you. About how you left his brother on your graduation day and ran off, never to be heard from again." She caught sight of a man filming them with his cell phone and marched over to stop him, leaving Annie standing there with her mouth agape.

A silver Audi pulled into the lot and parked on the opposite side. Leah barked a last warning at the man, then turned and smoothed her uniform.

Detective Greenly got out from the passenger side, waiting for the driver before approaching the scene. It had to be Agent Smecker. He was shorter and slimmer than Greenly, but there was something striking about him-his expression, the fit of his suit, his alert, intelligent posture. He exuded authority.

Leah crossed the gravel lot to meet him.

"Thanks for coming so quickly," she said.

"Thanks for calling me first," Smecker answered. Smecker shook Annie's hand firmly as Leah introduced them, seeming to take great interest in sizing her up. His eye contact became too intense, and she gestured behind her to the car. "It's all yours."

After a brief look through the window at the body, Smecker sent Greenly off to secure the perimeter, while he made a more thorough assessment. Annie and Leah followed behind him, keeping their distance to allow him space to work.

"Check it out," Leah whispered. Agent Smecker had put on latex gloves and removed an mp3 player from his breast pocket, clipping it to his lapel. He put the earphones in and closed his eyes, taking a slow, deep breath.

Annie pictured Michaelangelo, chisel in hand, approaching a monstrous hunk of marble.

Smecker peered in at the body for several seconds, but did not open the door. He circled the car twice, taking interest in the damaged front end, the plastic covered rear window, and the chipped paint on the trunk. As he walked, his arms swayed gracefully, as if conducting the music in his head. Whispers raced through the growing crowd, and more than a few people laughed aloud. Annie shifted uncomfortably. Michaelangelo was slipping from eccentric genius to community punch-line. She checked the road, half hoping to see Beckman's car, but it was a standard black-and-white that was next to arrive.

Officers Chaffey and Mitchell joined Annie and Leah as Smecker was finally opening the driver's side door. Along with Greenly, they stood by silently, watching the agent as he worked.

"So," Chaffey turned to Greenly, voice low. "Homicide?"

"Christ, Mike. It's always a conspiracy with you," Greenly said. "Didn't you see the take-out in the back seat? For all we know, this guy's running late on deliveries, takes a corner too fast, hits a parked car, breaks his fucking nose on the steering wheel—but he knows he's fired if he don't do his job, so he tries to keep going, pulls in here for a breather. Blacks out—wakes up dead."

Leah looked at him like he was on drugs. "Subdural hemotoma?"

"Yeah, exactly," Greenly said. "Bleeds out in his fucking brain."

Mitchell crossed his arms, looking doubtful.

Chaffey frowned. "I don't know man, feels like homicide to me."

Smecker was examining the body's bloodied face. He pulled a penlight from a leather pouch on his belt and leaned in closely, nearly nose-to-broken-nose, shining the penlight on the half-open eyelids.

Annie's chest tightened. The pennies wouldn't have left any marks. Would they?

A CSU van pulled into the lot with a spray of gravel. Smecker glanced up and motioned for Greenly to brief them, then sent Mitchell and Chaffey off to find the owners of the two cars parked on either side of the Cutlass. The coroner was going to need more room.

Only Leah and Annie remained. "Who checked for signs of life?" he asked them.

Leah gave her a little shove. "Um. I did," Annie said.

Smecker ran his tongue over his bottom teeth. "Felt for radial pulse?"

"Yes, left wrist. Then jugular."

"No pupil dilation?"

Oh, Jesus. He _could_ tell. She swallowed, managing to shake her head no.

Smecker rested the back of a gloved hand on his hip. "No, you didn't check his pupils, or no, they weren't dilated?" His gaze was like a tractor beam. Beside her, Annie could feel Leah watching, weighing every word.

"I didn't check—it didn't seem necessary. Is-" She cleared a tickle in her throat. "Is there a problem?"

"Not at all, Miss Lucas." His eyes narrowed fractionally. "You did a very thorough job."

A CSI wielding an expensive-looking camera hurried over, and Smecker released Annie from his hawk-like gaze.

"Excuse me," the CSI said tersely, reminding her unnecessarily that she had no business being here. Annie didn't wait to be told twice.

"Don't go far," Smecker warned. "We'll have a few more questions."

Annie made sure the volume was turned up on her radio, hoping they'd be needed on another call in the meantime.

"And it begins," Leah whispered, falling into step beside her. "Hey, sorry about before. Connor wasn't talking trash about you, I was just curious about your…dynamic."

"And he was happy to satisfy, I'm sure. You should know that Connor is quite the storyteller."

"I noticed there were a few holes in his story. Feel free to fill them in…"

Annie shook her head, surprised that the knife still twisted. "It doesn't matter, the ending still sucks."

A white, windowless van pulled slowly into the lot—the coroner, Annie guessed. They moved out of its way, in the direction of the wiener stand. Leah lifted the yellow tape for her, forging a path through the onlookers, answering the first questions someone asked her with, "Sorry, can't comment," and then blithely ignoring the rest.

She asked the wiener man for two Cokes. He took in her uniform and smiled, insisting it was free of charge.

Leah handed one of the plastic bottles to Annie, who hadn't realized she was dying of thirst. The soda was a little flat and not very cold. But hey, free was free. And at least she knew it wasn't spiked.

"I'm sorry," Leah said. "I can't let it go."

Annie froze mid-drink. The pennies. It had to be.

But when she dared a look at her partner, instead of accusatory, Leah looked genuinely confused. "What on earth could've made you skip your _college graduation_?"

Sheer relief made her laugh. "You won't believe me. But it had nothing to do with Murphy."

Leah looked uneasy. "Connor?"

Annie snorted. "As if. No, it was my sister." A heaviness filled her at the memory of that awful phone call. She pushed it off, away, reciting the facts of the tragedy as if they belonged to someone else. "Her husband was killed in a hit-and-run. They had two little girls at the time, and she was eight months pregnant with their third."

Leah's mouth formed an O.

"Do you have any sisters?"

Leah shook her head. "Only child. Shocking, I know."

"Well, maybe you can still understand. I didn't _choose_ to leave. It was…triage." Graduation hadn't even occurred to her until she was at 30,000 feet. The flight had been unspeakably awful. Five hours with nothing but pain and unanswered questions filling her every thought, while trying not to have a total emotional breakdown on the unfortunate man in the next seat. "Deep down I told myself it would be good for us to have some time, some breathing room. I told myself a lot of things back then."

"So what happened when he flew out to see you?"

Annie gave a bitter laugh, catching sight of Beckman's car at last pulling into onto the scene. "Funny. Come on, we'd better get back or this day is never going to end." She pushed back through the throng.

"Wait," Leah said from behind her. "Connor said Murphy flew to California to find you. He said he was there for a week."

Annie stopped, blinking at the yellow tape in front of her. She did a 180, searching Leah's face in vain for a laugh line, crow's feet, any hint that she was being mocked.

"Murphy _never_ came to find me," she said. "He never even called back. _I_ called. It wasn't until he changed his phone number that I really got the message." She ducked under the tape, and then held it up for Leah. "I don't know why Connor told you that."

"I don't know either," Leah admitted. They watched the coroner and his assistants load a black body bag into the van.

What would Connor gain from making up that story? It couldn't be true. A tiny, fluttering feeling took hold of her heart. She gave herself a bloody mental beating, shutting down memory lane with a concrete blockade.

"He doesn't hate you, if that makes you feel better."

"I'm over it, Leah. I can't believe we're still talking about this. Wait, who doesn't-Murphy or Connor?"

"Connor," Leah smiled, but it faded quickly. "At least that's what he claimed."

Annie rubbed her temples. She couldn't think about this stuff now. Tomorrow, she would, after a very long, very hot bath. And maybe a couple of shots.

Leah tugged the back of her shirt, pulling her clear of the coroner's van, which was pulling out as an antennae-laden Channel 6 News van was pulling in. A wall of officers moved immediately to reinforce the crime scene perimeter.

Annie watched the detectives regroup, watched them catch Beckman up on what they'd found so far. Beckman was nodding as Smecker talked, the way he had with her at Lucky's bar: half-listening as those restless gears began to grind inside his head. Greenly showed him the rear window and trunk, and Beckman's nodding stopped. He dropped to a crouch and stared at the license plate.

Annie's stomach flipped.

_Shit._

She changed direction, following the tape around the scene's perimeter, away from the tangle of law enforcement and camera crews.

She chanced a look and cringed inwardly. Beckman had spotted her, and he wasn't smiling.

Leah cursed under her breath.

Annie turned to her, deciding to go for broke. "Five bucks says he calls me over first. Are you going to tell me why you kept quiet about the car?"

"I'll take your five bucks, newbie." No one could do condescending like Leah. "I am his favorite target, after all." Beckman was already crunching through the gravel towards them. "If I'm wrong though…"

Annie waited expectantly. She needed something damn good to offer if she was going to ward Beckman off.

Leah let out a breath. Beckman had been snagged by the crime scene photographer, who was asking him something about the paint on the trunk.

"What's the big deal with those markings, anyway?" Annie wondered.

"They're bullet holes," Leah said, as if Annie was the only one who didn't know this.

Annie's already racing heart stuttered. _Bullet holes!_

Leah put a hand on her arm. "Are you okay?"

Annie nodded. No, she was not okay. Those bullet holes hadn't been there Friday night, had they? She thought she remembered the plastic stuff taped over the back window, but it was all starting to blur.

"Good," Leah said quietly. "Then shut up and listen. I don't want you screwing my shit up with Beckman any more than it already is. I didn't have to _tell_ Agent Smecker about the car, because he _already knew_. The whole damn city knows. I handed it to them on a silver platter. With a city-side BOLO on an eyesore like this, they should have brought this guy in a week ago. Apparently, I'm not the only one who can do the math."

Friday was only three days ago. "What do you mean a week ago? They couldn't have-"

"Yes, they could have. It was practically an artist's sketch. The only thing missing was a license plate number, which unfortunately—or luckily—I was too far away to see." Her eyes darkened. "Yet, here we are," she muttered. "Once again, the ball gets dropped and somebody _else_ has to step in and do the dirty work-don't tell Beckman I said that."

"But—" The word was barely a whisper. "But we chased this car from your house…" Leah looked her in the eye, but she may as well have slapped her.

"_That_ is not common knowledge. I'd like to keep it that way."

Annie stared past her at the Cutlass. At the car Murphy had known—had _pursued_-on sight. The very same one that had carried unknown mobsters from the scene of a triple homicide.

"Annie!" Leah hissed, shaking her. "It makes no difference to anyone else where we saw it. It only matters to me, I swear. Do you hear what I'm saying? Are we clear? Because if we're not, I may have to clarify that pupil dilation issue for Agent Smecker."

Annie blinked up at her. The crunch of footsteps came closer and closer. "We're clear," she whispered. Leah held on a split second longer, then released her.

"Annie." Beckman's voice was curt. "I'd like to speak with you."

Annie trudged behind Beckman towards the trunk of the Cutlass. They passed Detective Duffy at an open rear door, carefully handing a foul-smelling bag to a gum-chewing man in a trench coat. Annie didn't think she knew him, but he seemed to regard her with a curious familiarity. It wasn't comforting.

Beckman stopped, opened his small notebook. Paper-clipped to the front page was a small white cocktail napkin. He slipped it loose and handed it to her.

"You want to explain this?"

Annie took it reluctantly, holding it lightly with her fingertips, as if she might somehow leave a fingerprint more damning than the seven license plate digits written in her neat, slightly slanted script.

She tried to keep her hand steady as she handed it back.

"This has nothing to do with our agreement."

"Of course not," Beckman said, let her arm hang there, extended. "It has to do with me being a detective, and you asking me to run a plate on a _coffin_ dumped in a harbor warehouse lot."

"I don't know anything about that. I told you, it was just a parking problem."

He considered her for a beat. "You're right," he said. "It's not your problem." His eyes were inscrutable behind his mirrored sunglasses. "Let your uncle know that if his business hours are too limiting, I can have him brought down to the station to discuss this-"

"That isn't necessary."

"According to you, your uncle has a issue with the owner of this vehicle. That makes this the second suspicious death inside of a week to which he has a connection. And I wouldn't exactly call Jake Wheeler's record squeaky clean."

Annie crumpled the napkin in her fist. "That's bullshit and you know it. Jake has been clean for years!"

Duffy and the trench coat detective glanced her way, and she felt herself color. Their attention caught on and spread amongst the cluster of investigators and she was forced to move closer to Beckman to keep their conversation private.

"Just leave Jake out of it, okay?"

Beckman removed the napkin from her hand, smoothed it, and re-clipped it in his notebook. "Tell me what I want to know. Tell me how you know this car."

So she told him, recounting only the relevant facts, softening details like _chased_ into _followed_, and leaving out anything and everything personal. Then of course, there was the question of where exactly she'd seen the car—and Leah's non-subtle and somewhat terrifying threat of blackmail. If Agent Smecker found out what she did…

Well, technically, Annie had been reaching under the seat to get her purse when it all started. She hadn't _seen_ the car until Murphy had chased it a block or two down the street anyway. Beckman scribbled notes in his book as she carefully selected her words.

"Murphy didn't tell you why he decided to follow the car?" he asked.

"Not that I recall. At the time I was a little…"

"Drunk."

Annie shifted her weight. "_Tired_."

Beckman smirked, and jotted another note. "That's fine, I'll ask Murphy myself."

Hold up. "You're going to question him now?"

Beckman glanced over at the group of detectives, then turned so his back was to them as he spoke. Over Beckman's shoulder, she saw Agent Smecker's eyes lock on them. "Coroner estimates the body's been here somewhere between 12 and 36 hours," Beckman told her quietly. "The M.E.'s report will bring us closer, of course, but that's what we've got for now." He removed his mirrored glasses, somehow tripling their intimacy. "Any idea of Murphy's whereabouts last night?"

"What?" Annie stuttered. "That's not what I was saying, Josh. He didn't have anything to do with _this_."

"Maybe. But somebody did. And everybody knows somebody. Murphy seems to know more than his share of somebodies, am I right?" He repeated his question, letting the personal implications fall freely.

Her mind replayed the previous day at warp speed. Sunday, at the shop—Murphy's visit, returning her cell phone, that odd voicemail she overheard…

"He was with a friend," she said quickly. "At a bar, I think."

"What bar? Who was the friend?"

"I don't know," she said, almost whispering. "I think...I think he was Irish." Beckman needed answers; Murphy needed an alibi. She was _helping_, not hurting, she told herself fiercely. But every word felt like the worst kind of treachery.

Beckman swore, glancing up the street sourly. "Do you know how many bars are in Southie alone?"

She nodded thoughtfully. "Might take a whole task force to check them all. Maybe you should just take my word for it."

Officer Chaffey hurried over to them. "Excuse me, Annie. Beckman—you'll want to see this. They found a list of deliveries."

"I'll be right back," Beckman told her firmly. "Don't go anywhere."

She was tempted to tag along just to find a way to quell the uneasiness growing inside her. She was more tempted to run, as far and as fast as she could. Find a dark closet to hide in until this ugly storm was all blown over. The yellow tape stretched out around her, lining the wall of spectators, closing her in. There had to be a way out, she thought. There—a bubble of space around Chaffey and Mitchell's patrol car. She sat down unceremoniously on the hood, bracing one foot on the bumper, her mind reeling.

Murphy _couldn't_ know the dead guy. He must have recognized the description from Leah's witness statement. With the speculation of Saints' involvement, Annie had been following the case as closely as anyone, or so she had thought, but _she_ hadn't made the connection. It stung to admit it, but Murphy must not be as disconnected as he appeared. Or as disloyal.

But if he _was_ chasing the plaza murderer's getaway car – why hadn't he just told her that, instead of making up that bullshit about borrowed money? Why hadn't he called the cops? And what in God's name had Murphy planned to do if he'd been able to stop the guy?

There were answers in there somewhere, but not pretty ones. A shadow passed over her as the coastal breeze pushed clouds in front of the sun.

Annie took a breath and wiped her forehead. She forced herself to stand, to walk the tension out of her body. The pennies in her pocket jingled as she walked. She pressed a hand flat against her pants to quiet them. Those fucking Saints were the common denominator in all this.

Beckman's words echoed in her mind: _The Saints aren't operating in a vacuum. They're getting help from somewhere…_

She paced in front of the patrol car, trying to picture Murphy and Connor lending a helping hand to the bastards who'd killed Rocco. The image refused to form.

_Technically, nothing's ever been proven…Sometimes people don't want to believe the evidence._

As she'd told Beckman, Murphy wasn't that kind of crazy. If he didn't believe the evidence—was it possible he knew something that the cops didn't? A secret involvement with fugitives could certainly explain some things: the mysterious injuries, the lying, the reckless chase. Then there was that cryptic voicemail. Suddenly, Beckman's suspicion made all too much sense. Could the Irish friend have been one of the Saints?

A dozen black crows circled overheard, cawing at each other, perhaps still detecting the scent of death, though the body was long gone.

Annie hugged herself tightly, thanking God Beckman couldn't hear her thoughts. She went through the facts a second time, and then a third, each time ending up at the same place. Either Murphy was deluding himself—or she was.

She had to talk to him.

Detective Duffy split from the group and approached her. Beckman and the others were huddled in a semi-circle, sniffing the Chinese take-out boxes the CSIs were cataloging.

"Where's your partner?" Duffy asked her.

Annie saw Leah's blonde ponytail and Mitchell's six-foot frame over the top of the Cutlass, heading towards the ambulance at the far side of the lot.

"Making a run for it, I think. You got a spot on your tie there."

"No, it's the pattern. My daughter picked it out." He attempted to straighten it, which was like spritzing Windex on the Cutlass. There was no fix for ugly. "Leah wouldn't leave without you, would she?"

"With her, anything's possible. Beckman asked me to wait, but…"

"You already talked to Smecker?" Duffy asked, and she nodded. He leaned closer. "Then between you and me – I'd haul ass outta here."

A smile tugged at her mouth. Why couldn't all the detectives be like him? "Are you allowed to tell me anything about the body?" she asked. "Beside his nose, I didn't see any signs of trauma." Like point-blank range bullet holes, for instance.

Duffy glanced at the news van and frowned. "Well, this much will be on at six. You probably saw the pill bottles. We're running tests for a possible drug overdose."

"Suicide?" Guilt weighed on her. She'd taken the pennies to deny the Saints their precious publicity—not to send the investigators in the complete opposite direction.

Duffy scrunched up his face, as if struggling not to say too much. "Possible, but…we know he wasn't alone in that car."

"Oh. I heard Chaffey say something about a list of deliveries – what does that tell you?"

"It tells me Chaffey's got a big mouth." He sighed. "The victim was a delivery man for Curry Wok. You know the place?"

"Cheap Chinese-Indian fusion. Not as good as Jimmy Chan's. I doubt he made much in tips. I hope you catch his killers."

Duffy's head tilted ever so slightly and she cringed inwardly. Thanks to the coins in her pocket, she might the only one assuming multiple killers.

On the street a tow truck approached and Duffy straightened. "Hang in there, Annie." He patted her on the shoulder. "And don't let Beckman get to you—he sometimes forgets we're all on the same side."

The tow truck pulled in and Duffy strode over to speak to the driver. The group at the Cutlass broke up, all except for Beckman and Smecker, who seemed to be having a heated debate about something. Good. Maybe she could slip away unnoticed.

The ambulance was already started, with Leah perched in the driver's seat, looking restless. Annie had just pulled her door shut when someone's knuckles rapped sharply against the glass. It was Beckman.

Leah muttered obscenities. Annie rolled the window down.

"Gotta go," she told him. "They need us back at the station."

"This will just take a minute," he said, taking it upon himself to open her door.

With a sigh, she got out. Leah eased off the brake, letting the idling ambulance inch forward. Beckman shot daggers at her and she stopped, taking an extra-long look at her watch.

"Everything okay?" Annie asked him.

His jaw set, Beckman pulled out the trusty notebook. A new page was clipped over the napkin. The food delivery orders? "Murphy MacManus," he said. "Do you know where he was Saturday night? Did you talk to him after I dropped you off?"

"No." _WHY?_ She was too afraid to ask.

"What about his brother, Connor?"

"No idea. I thought you asked me about _last_ night-"

Beckman shook his head impatiently. "The victim's stage of rigor mortis was misleading. The food orders are from a day earlier-late Saturday evening, around the time we were at Lucky's."

"Around the time you were spiking my drinks."

His eyes darted past her to the ambulance window, which was still rolled down. "I apologized for the drinks," he said quietly. "Now cut the crap. You lied to me, and begged me for a favor in the same breath. Now I've got a new body on my hands, and I'm done doing favors."

"I've already told you everything I know." She peeked at the page in his notebook, trying to read it upside down. "Sounds like you've got your hands on something useful. I don't see how it connects to my friends."

"Oh, so now it's friends, not exes?" He tilted the notebook up, out of her view. "Do you have a way to get in touch with _your friends_?"

Interesting. After St. Patrick's Day, she'd think the police would have his information on file.

"I'm sorry, Murphy hasn't given me his number." Technically true. He did make a call to Connor from her phone, though, which meant the number was still saved in her outgoing calls.

The vein on Beckman's forehead was starting to swell. "Annie, if the man has nothing to hide, then no harm can come from talking to me."

"I can't give you information I don't have, Josh." She climbed back into the ambulance, locking the door as soon as it was shut.

Leah started to pull away.

Beckman jogged next to her open window. "Think hard about your priorities, Annie."

"Okay, thanks, Beckman!" Leah called, pushing the button to roll up the window. "Keep up the good work!"

"Christ, Leah."

"Don't mention it."

.

.

.

* * *

_**A/N:**__ FYI, recent chapters have been re-ordered. So very sorry for the craziness! (Though I'm sure there's been minimal confusion, as all my readers are exceedingly smart.) _


	31. In the Dark

**[Chapter 31: In the Dark]**

_Later Monday Night_

On the way back to the apartment, Connor took a detour past Callaghan's. Murphy didn't know what he expected to see; the pub was still closed at this early hour, which was perfectly normal. If the owner didn't happen to be missing.

Guilt…wisdom…paranoia…Murphy liked to believe it was simple common sense that took them back to their apartment and kept them there, lying low for the rest of the afternoon. They hadn't left a trace of evidence for Beckman or anyone else to find. There was no record of them living at this address, and their anonymity with the landlord made the place as good a safe house as any. Should that cell phone start to ring—well, it wasn't like they had their bags packed, but in Murphy's head the list was short: two duffels each – one for weapons, one for everything else. He figured they could be out the door in under four minutes.

The thought simmered quietly in the back of his mind while he unplugged the ancient clock radio beside his bed and moved it to the kitchen. The local talk-radio show seemed to have the most frequent local news updates, but it wasn't much to celebrate when he considered the_ Associate_ probably had high speed Internet and a police scanner. No doubt the bastard knew the gist of Bobby's fate already, but God, Murphy wished he could see his face when those two little pennies came to light.

He tried Seamus off and on all afternoon, no longer leaving messages, meeting his brother's eyes each time he pressed that red button in defeat. The hours passed, and still the phone lay silent. No Seamus, no Smecker, no Greenly. No Annie even. Facing down that particular raging storm was bound to be all kinds of fun—the only thing worse was waiting for it. He dialed voicemail, just in case the alert hadn't come through. Then he shut the thing off, counted to fifteen, and turned it back on again.

Connor snatched it from his hand with a sigh of disgust. "Get your guns," he said. "It's four o-clock."

"Pub opens at five."

"Rhonwen will be there, settin' up. Seamus too, God willing, but if not…"

"You're right. We don't need an audience."

Murphy sucked in a breath and knocked. No answer. He knocked again, louder, and stepped back to look directly into the small camera above the wrought-iron sconce on the wall. He couldn't remember if there had been a red light visible the last few times they'd come, but there wasn't one today. Connor pulled out the phone and dialed. Through the heavy door, they could hear the faint sound of the pub's landline ringing and ringing.

"I'll try her cell." After a minute, Connor swore and closed the phone, his lips pressing into a grim line.

A cool breeze swept up the street, chilling him through the open collar of his peacoat. He felt naked without his guns, even if he had agreed they were better left in the trunk for now. The first step was getting Rhonwen to trust them enough to let them in on the situation. Then, if needed, they could suit up on behalf of their missing friend—they'd brought the entire arsenal, just in case. Of course, considering the contents of the cellar under their feet, their two meager black duffels were a sad joke. Would Seamus need more than that? Murphy shook his head and knocked again, pounding until his fist hurt. Connor shifted, glancing up as someone passed by on the sidewalk. Murphy stopped knocking, stepping back and running a hand through his hair.

Suddenly, the cell phone rang. Connor answered it quickly. "Rhonwen?"

Instantly, Murphy's ear was next to the phone, in time to hear her faint reply: "_Is that you?_"

"We're outside and we're alone," Connor said, his accent a touch thicker in automatic response to hers. "Please, Rhonnie, just open the door."

There was a shuffling inside. It was muffled by the thickness of the wood, but Murphy was pretty sure he heard the sliding click of a shotgun being cocked just on the other side of the door. Connor sent a glance heavenward. Then more clicks as the locks were thrown back and slowly the door creaked open.

Rhonnie put a hand up, wincing at the sunlight. Her other hand and whatever she was holding stayed hidden behind the half-open door. Behind her the interior of the pub slipped into shadow. Her hair was pulled back in a rough ponytail, and she appeared not to have showered, as the bruises on her neck had darkened to a muddy purple beneath the faded remnants of the make-up she'd caked over them last night. Dark circles lined her eyes, along with yesterday's mascara.

She leaned forward slightly, scanned the street outside in both directions, then stepped back and let them in, immediately closing, locking, and double-bolting the door behind them.

Darkness swallowed them.

"What's with the lights?" Connor asked from somewhere to his left.

Without any windows in the brick walls of the narrow building, the only light visible was from a handful of flickering votive candles lining the bar. Murphy stretched his eyes open wide, trying make them adjust. The pub was in hibernation mode, wooden chairs still stacked upside down on the tables.

"Power's out," Rhonwen said, her voice barely above a whisper.

_Power's out_. Including power to the surveillance camera, which explained the phone call to verify who was knocking, but didn't explain the sawed-off shotgun she was laying atop the bar, still loaded and cocked, with only the softest click telling him she'd thumbed the safety.

Murphy shuffled forward, towards the nearest candle, and bumped his thigh on a table, jostling the stacked chairs. Rhonwen reached to grab a slipping chair leg, and his hand closed over hers. He held it there until he felt her face turn towards him in the dark.

"What's going on, Rhonnie?"

Her hand slid from under his. "Sit here, I'll get another candle."

So he and Connor pulled the chairs off the table and set them upright, relying on feel more than sight. Rhonwen sat between them, her somber face lit from below by a flickering yellow flame. No one spoke. The wick of the candle crackled and snapped like there was moisture on the wick, the sound of it filling the room, magnifying the emptiness.

In the near decade he lived in the city, Murphy realized quiet had become relative. Traffic noises, neighbors' voices, TVs, passing sirens, pets barking, even the hum of appliances coalesced into a sort of background white noise that he could tune out without even trying. Here, now, in this empty, windowless cave of a bar, the silence was absolute. Even Rhonwen seemed unnerved by it, her head at a permanent tilt, as if she couldn't stop listening for something.

Connor leaned back, and the sudden squeak of the wooden chair made them all jump.

"I'm sorry-you guys are here for Seamus," she said, as if remembering her manners. "He's…still out. Just a delay, nothing to worry about. But you mentioned yesterday that he left you a message. Do you still have it?"

Connor shifted again, sharing a frown with Murphy.

"You haven't heard from him at all?" Murphy asked.

Rhonwen's shoulders rose with a breath. "He chooses his meetin' places very carefully, boys. If there's no cell service, it's hardly accidental."

"But you know where he went, right? You could go look for him—_we_ could go look for him if he doesn't make contact."

"That's really not necessary." She managed to sound condescending, but it wasn't quite convincing without eye contact; her words were directed at the dancing candle flame. "Got that voicemail?"

"Christ, Rhonnie," Connor said, rubbing a hand over his face. "There's nothing to be found in that damned voicemail. Didn't he tell you where he was going?"

Rhonnie leaned forward on the table. "Location is not the issue, Connor, and I didn't ask for an interpretation of his message. I asked if you still had it."

"So, you do know where he is."

"I-" She blinked. "I have a pretty good idea. I might get me a better idea if you'd play me that fucking message."

Connor sighed. He took out the phone and retrieved the voicemail. "Don't get your hopes up," he told her. Murphy reached over and hit the speaker button. Seamus's voice echoed though the bar. This time, Murphy heard a strain, an overly casual falseness that he hadn't noticed before.

"_Afternoon, lads. Sorry to do this to you, but I have to push back our ten o'clock meetin' time. Business has been…a bit crazy." _The forced chuckle_. "The bar's still open to you any time, o' course. I'll get back to you next week. You know what they say: anocht, anocht."_

Rhonwen leaned forward in her chair. "Play it again," she ordered, her brows constricting.

He did, and then a third time.

"So, what does it mean?" Murphy asked.

She shook her head, over and over. A strange laugh escaped her and she threw her hands in the air. "You tell me."

"He says _next week_," Connor mused, "and then he says _tonight_. And we never had any meetin' time set up."

"I know," Rhonwen said, wiping the corners of her eyes irritably. "Who do you think sets the schedule?"

"_Anocht_ sounded like a pretty clear message."

"Which is why you came last night," Rhonwen said, acknowledging their attempt with a tight smile.

"And stayed past ten o'clock," Murphy said, not bothering to mask his frustration. "But nothing happened. No one called, nobody showed. I don't think we could have missed it."

Rhonwen shook her head regretfully.

Murphy watched her. "Seamus wouldn't call for help unless he had no other option."

She blinked again, her eyes shining in the candlelight.

"Which brings up another question," Connor said. "Not to be a dick here, but why would he call us, and not you?"

Murphy looked at him. "You really have to ask that?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Rhonwen asked.

"If I was in serious trouble," Murphy told her flatly, "the last thing I'd do is call my woman into harm's way.

Connor looked at him thoughtfully while Rhonwen made a show of rolling her eyes and scoffing. "I'm not _his woman_."

"Does he know that?"

With a grating scrape, she shoved out of her chair and stalked into the darkness, reappearing behind the bar. She took a glass that had been drying upside down on a towel and slid it under the nearest tap, filling it a few fingers full, downing it, then half-filling it again.

"Talk to us, Rhonnie," Murphy said, impatience trumping sympathy. "Who are we dealing with? Did they give you those beauty marks on your neck? Is that their black Caddie still parked out back?"

"How'd your brother get that shiner?" she shot back. "What did _you_ come shopping for this week? Is that _your_ handiwork that's been splashed all over the papers?"

His tongue faltered. Rhonwen _never_ spoke openly about her clients' business– it wasn't professional. That she'd breach her own sacred laws spoke volumes about the current situation.

She let go of the tap and the handle sprung upright, vibrating a little. "Business is business, Murphy. And it's _my_ business, not yours."

"The fuck it is," Connor said. He rose and came to face her across the bar. "Why's the power out in here but not next door?"

Murphy's mind caught—he hadn't noticed that.

The shotgun lay on the bar in front of Conner. He picked it up, testing its weight. "Why'd you let us in if you're not going to tell us what the fuck's going on?"

She held the beer with both hands, her eyes on Connor and the shotgun. "I'm sure you can both understand that there are some things _I cannot tell you_."

Murphy rose and made his way behind the bar. "I know you're scared, but you let us in for a reason. Tell us why we're whispering when there's no one around to hear. Tell us why we're hiding in the dark in a room with no windows."

Rhonwen swirled her beer.

Murphy laid a hand gently on her arm as she began to raise the glass again. Her skin was cold. "Do you really want to do that right now?"

"You're right, I don't," she whispered, surprising him. "But I'll throw up if I drink the Jameson."

Her chin raised and the plea in her eyes stabbed him. He let go of her arm.

"Are you sure it's not just the breaker?" Connor asked, setting the gun down suddenly. He started for the rear of the pub, presumably to find the circuit breaker box.

Rhonwen turned so fast her beer sloshed onto Murphy's shirt. "It's not back there," she said quickly.

Which made Murphy entirely sure that it was, along with some answers to these questions she seemed so intent on avoiding. Connor grabbed the last candle from the end of bar, cursing and juggling the hot glass between hands, leaving Murphy with a suddenly panicking Rhonwen.

He gripped her shoulders to stop her from tailing Connor, but she flinched and tried to jerk away as soon as he touched her. "You can't go in the office," she said, her voice pitching higher as she strained against him. "Let _go_ of me, Murphy. It's not back there anyway!"

"Then what's the problem?" Not knowing what other bruises she may have hidden, Murphy gently but firmly backed her against the bar. Through the darkness, Connor's boots drummed across the wooden floor. They heard the knob turn, saw the light dim, blocked from their view as Connor held it in front of him, and then—

"Holy shit," he swore. The light faltered, nearly fell, then was lifted high overhead. "What the fuck happened in here?"

Murphy should have known by the way she relaxed under his hands-just a half-second's pause, enough to make him back off the inch or so necessary for her knee to land an unobstructed bull's eye between his legs.

Jesus fucking Christ, the woman could kick. She tried to twist away, obviously expecting him to release her immediately, but anger helped him keep a grip on her wrist until he could stand upright. He dragged her to the office, Rhonwen struggling to free herself the whole way. "Seamus would tell you to keep your hands off me," she hissed.

"Seamus would tell me to stop being such a gentleman."

Murphy kept a hand on her arm as they reached the office door, in case she got any ideas. The shotgun was still on the bar, but God knew what other weapons she had stowed away in here.

Connor was wading through the tiny office, holding the candle high, pushing debris aside with his boot. The place was ransacked. Papers and equipment were scattered everywhere, the computer dumped onto the floor, desk drawers removed and laying upturned in the mess.

"It's not what it looks like," Rhonwen mumbled.

"I'm not even sure what it looks like," Connor turned to her, bewildered. "Rhonnie, what the fuck? Did someone break in?"

"I was looking for something," she said darkly.

"_You_ did this?" Dread at whatever fate had found Seamus swelled inside Murphy.

"Looking for the breaker box?" Connor peeked behind a framed picture on the wall.

Murphy took stock of the contents of the four small walls. "It's not in here," he said. A sudden realization crashed down on him as Rhonwen shrunk from his gaze. "It's in the cellar."

The wooden closet door was already ajar. He took three high steps over the rubble and into the closet, Connor right behind him. The closet air smelled faintly of Mexican food. There were scratches and gouges in the seam of the drywall where the door should open. They looked like they'd been made by a large knife or a screwdriver, maybe both. His boot hit something heavy, rattling glass. Connor dropped the candle lower, revealing a rack of pilsner glasses on the floor – the one Seamus normally kept on the shelf to hide the pin pad for the security lock.

"It's locked." Rhonwen's voice came from behind them. It sounded hollow.

"What's the code?" Connor asked.

Silence.

Without discussion, both men backed out of the closet to give her passage. Murphy tried to throw some healthy respect into his tone. "Of course, I'm sorry – you enter it."

He turned, but she was no longer standing behind them; she wasn't even standing. She sank onto the corner of the desk, looking past them at the door. "You can't go down there."

"We've _been_ in the cellar." Murphy moved a step closer. She hugged herself protectively, and he was struck with guilt that he'd probably added to her injuries. Another step reminded him certain parts of his own were still sore and the guilt magically vanished. "Rhonnie, we've already crossed that fucking line. You can be damn sure your secrets aren't any worse than ours."

He held her eyes for a long moment, making sure she understood exactly what he was saying.

Her shoulders began to shake. She started laughing, and then suddenly she was crying, loud, bone-rattling sobs. Her boot heel banged against the metal side of the desk. "Stupid fucking arrogant _asshole_!" she screamed. She kicked the desk again and again, with both solid-heeled boots. If it wasn't so disturbing, and if he was a little more confident she wasn't referring to _him_, he would have laughed.

Connor smacked him on the arm. _It's not about you, dumbass_.

Both men started towards her. Murphy exchanged a look with Connor and wondered if she could tell they were doing rock-paper-scissors in their minds.

"Don't," she warned, stopping her tantrum abruptly. "I'm fine." She sniffed, swiped under both eyes with the heels of her hands, and stomped between them to the key pad, punching in the numbers quickly. A light blinked on the key pad, but as far as Murphy could tell, nothing else happened.

She turned to them, her face blaring _See? What did I tell you?_

"You _can't_ go down there. The code doesn't work. It's one of Seamus's security features, to ensure privacy during a transaction, and to prevent any…surprises. Once the pin's been entered and the door unlocked, the code won't open it again until it's been reset."

Murphy saw the exhaustion in her face, and suddenly understood. "Oh, shit."

"It's locked down from the _inside,"_ Connor said slowly, touching the seam in the drywall. Where it was untouched, it was barely visible. "So, who can unlock it if-?" he stopped abruptly, meeting Murphy's eyes.

"Seamus can," Murphy said, still trying to make sense of it. "Because he's down there right now."

Rhonwen confirmed with a nod, swiping at her eyes, and something cold gripped Murphy's heart.

"He can, but he hasn't," he went on, the last of his hope evaporating as he read her face. "Something's stopping him."

Connor backed away from the door.

"Some_one_," Rhonwen whispered. "He isn't down there alone."

The same someone whose Caddie was still parked out back.

Murphy touched them both on the arm, gesturing that they should continue this conversation in the bar. They followed him over to the table nearest the office door. Murphy took down the chairs. Connor pushed aside the plastic appetizer menu and set the candle in the center of the table. No one sat. It felt wrong now, somehow. They hovered instead, hands on the backs of the chairs.

"Why don't you start at the beginning." Murphy said, keeping his voice low.

Rhonwen took a breath. "Yesterday afternoon, we're getting ready to open. I'm restocking the bar, Seamus is in the office, finishing some paperwork. All of a sudden, I hear shouting. Seamus was in there alone, so they had to have come through the back. I grab the shotgun from the bar. The office door is open a bit, so I come up from the side, real quiet, listening…" She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. "They were waiting for me. Seamus was right there; I couldn't shoot without hitting him. I should have taken the Glock."

"Who was it?" Connor asked. "How'd they end up in the cellar?"

"I didn't recognize them. Seamus was arguing with them about the guns—"

"What guns? They were customers?" Connor asked. "A good deal gone bad?"

"Definitely not customers," she said bitterly. "I guess I didn't start at the real _beginning_: Stupid Seamus and his stupid fucking ego. We've been losing market share to the wop—to another organization for a while now. They're messing with our suppliers – strong-arming, bribing—we don't even know. Two days ago Seamus goes to see about a shipment and sees our portion is only a drop in the bucket of what they're bringing in, and all the rest has someone else's name on it. So he steps up with a higher bid."

"Makes them an offer they can't refuse," Connor said, straightfaced.

It was lost on Rhonwen. "He comes home with a fucking truckload, for Christ's sake! And proud of himself! And I know, in my gut I already know it's bad, I know it's going to come back on us, and looky here – I was right. _I was right_!" She shouted at the floor, stomping a few times for emphasis.

Could Seamus hear any of this? Murphy wondered how well the sound carried through the floor. There hadn't been anyone else in the building during each of his previous visits to the cellar, so the fact that he didn't recall hearing sounds above didn't mean much. Of course, he'd been rather distracted by glorious selection of firepower around him at the time, so who knows what he might have noticed, if anything. If Seamus could hear them now, he had to assume the others could hear as well.

"So you interrupt them in the office," Connor prompted. "Seamus is arguing about the guns…"

"He's saying they'd already been sold, they weren't here. No one's buying it. The big ugly one takes me back into the bar, and…" She trailed off, suddenly interested in her fingernails. "I've never heard Seamus so angry, not in all my life."

Murphy felt the electricity begin to seep into his veins.

It was several long seconds before she continued. "I heard the security panel beep, heard them go down the stairs. Big Ugly tried to duct tape me to that chair over there, the moron. He left to help them carry up the precious cargo, and I was free in five minutes. I could have picked them off one by one, but the idiots tripped one of the security sensors, and then the door slammed shut–" She swatted the plastic menu off the table. It clattered and slid across the hardwood panels.

Four men, trapped in a cellar, three of them with no viable reason to keep the fourth alive. The possibility was ugly, but it had to be considered. "Rhonnie-" he began gently.

She put up a hand. "I know. If he's the only one who can open it, then if he hasn't done it by now…."

There was no need to say it.

Connor leaned forward, hands on the back of his chair. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves yet."

"Tell us about this other organization. Does it have a name?" Murphy asked.

Rhonwen shifted her weight. "That's a question you'll have to ask Seamus."

"Are you kidding me?" Clearly, she was not. "Fine. Then let's go get him."

She put a hand out to stop him. "Wait. I'm sorry. I appreciate what you're doing here, and I do need your help but…" She sighed. "I care about you guys, too, all right? There's no need for you to know anything more than you need to know."

"Here's what we need to know," Connor said, "How many are there, and what are they armed with?"

"Three." Her hand snaked along her neck, absently trailing over her bruises. "Big, ugly, and at least one of them is smart. Two had .45's, one had a fifty cal, probably carrying at least another weapon each – but that's really the least of your worries." Her eyes dropped to the floor briefly, then she continued in her emotionless business voice. "You saw the inventory last week. Add to that the truckload of semi-autos. Whoever's in charge down there is gonna have their pick of whatever the fuck they want."

The words sunk in and Murphy met Connor's eyes.

"Excellent," Connor said, his fingers finding the rosary beads around his neck. "One question, though. Before we get blown to bits, how are we gettin' down there?"

"It can't be as simple as breaking down the door," Murphy said, "or you'd have done it by now."

Rhonwen gave him a small smile, seeming to take his words as a compliment. "It's steel reinforced. But there's more to it than that. Seamus is very protective of his property. And he can be very creative when he wants to be. You guys remember Indiana Jones?"

"You have snakes in the cellar?" Connor asked quickly.

"Well, no."

"Rats?"

"No…"

"Oh, shit. The cameras," Connor glanced up into the darkened corners around them. "He has monitors in the cellar. They'll be watching us now, won't they?"

Rhonwen shook her head impatiently. "I think that's why Seamus cut the power."

Connor's brows rose. "You sure it was Seamus? That's a mighty big leap. I mean, not that he couldn't manage it, all things being equal, but-"

"I know," Rhonwen snapped. "It's three against one down there, and things aren't even close to equal. But killing the power kills their advantage. He'd have no problem, but they'd be lost in the dark."

Connor looked at Murphy doubtfully. "Have you heard anything?" he asked Rhonwen. "Banging, noises on the other side of the door?"

"I did at first."

"But nothing lately."

"What time did the power go out?" Murphy asked.

"This morning, around six. I-" She brushed her hair back self-consciously. "I slept here last night."

Murphy frowned. A lot could have happened in the last ten or so hours.

"It was a message," Rhonwen insisted. "He's telling me he's still alive, that's he's still fighting. He's forcing me to keep the bar closed and empty."

Murphy didn't want to give in to false hope. But it did sort of make sense. "He's making sure nobody sees us coming down those stairs, assuming we can get the door open."

Connor rubbed his lips. "They could be on the stairs, right on the other side. Just sayin'."

"They're not on the stairs," Rhonwen said. "You can bet they're as far away from that door as possible." She saw their blank faces and gestured to the office. "Didn't you smell it? Seamus has a pepper spray booby trap rigged on the second step."

Connor's head rocked back. "I thought you had fajitas for lunch."

"Booby traps," Murphy said. "Now I get it. This is fucking grand. Are we looking at poison darts and a giant rolling stone as well?"

Rhonwen looked pained, and he realized she was truly concerned for their safety.

"Darlin', if you know where the traps are, we can avoid them, right?"

"Maybe. Some of them work like a chain reaction, and there's no way to tell what's already been set off. Some are geared for the entrance, others are more…all-encompasing."

"Like a self-destruct?"

"Um. Let's hope not."

"Hope's not bringing your man back," Connor said. "We are. Here's the plan: you round up all of your hidey-hole pistols and pieces I know you got stashed around this place. Me and Murph can get ours from the car-"

"Don't waste your time. I could arm a rebel alliance from here."

"Fine. Me and Murphy will take another look at that cellar door."

She started to protest but Murphy stopped her. "Can't hurt to turn some fresh eyes on the problem. And honestly, what more can get damaged in there?"

With a sigh, she handed him the candle and left them to it. Soon he could hear bangs and clatters, the firepower queen collecting her hidden arsenal.

Connor went straight for the top desk drawer, the one they'd seen Seamus reach inside presumably to push some sort of button before leading them into the closet. The drawer was upside down behind the desk. Connor flipped it over and found a small metal switch attached to the back panel of the drawer. It looked the right size to hold a button cell battery, so power shouldn't have been an issue, but when Connor flipped it nothing happened. He tried again, back and forth, with no result.

"I'll try it in the closet, see if I can hear anything switching on."

Murphy began with examining every remaining drawer. He worked his way around the room, searching along every bookshelf, behind every picture frame, under every object not nailed down or strewn on the floor, then afterwards he checked those as well.

"Anything?" Connor asked.

"Just some old pictures you ought to see. Turns out Seamus is a bit of a softy. And he reads some weird-ass books."

"You should see what he has at home," Rhonwen said from the doorway. She'd already strapped on a double shoulder holster, which for the sake of his missing friend, Murphy did his best not to notice was incredibly hot. "I think I've found it all, you guys come take your pick."

"I got zip from the closet." Connor rolled his neck. "What time is it?"

Murphy held the candle overhead to see the clock. "Two thirty-seven? Is the clock wired?"

Rhonwen gave an exaggerated scoff. "No, it's just a piece of shit. Seamus is constantly resetting it, but it never, ever holds the time. I've tried to buy him a new one, but he insists that one is _irreplaceable_."

Connor came over and held his watch in the candle's glow. "Five-thirty. You're going to be getting customers any minute, Rhonnie. Might want to think about puttin' a sign on the door."

She sighed. "Aye, I will. The phone greeting message too. People are going to be calling. God, I don't even know what to say."

Murphy was still staring at the clock, wondering what could possibly be so special about a malfunctioning clock that a tech-enthusiast like Seamus would keep it. And he was thinking about phone messages. The thoughts circled each other inside his head, and then all at once, they connected.

He grabbed the desk chair, climbed up and carefully took the clock off the wall. There was no tick. Still standing on the chair, he flipped it over. The back of it indicated nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary. His fingertips found the ridged wheel that would turn and set the time. Slowly, he began to wind the hands back. Connor and Rhonwen had frozen where they stood and were watching him. The minute hand swept backwards: three, two, one…twelve. Ten o'clock.

From the closet, there was a faint beep. A tiny green light began to flash in the darkness. Rhonwen gasped. She squeezed past the chair and into the closet before Murphy could get down. She didn't touch the key pad, just stared at it for moment, then spun around, eyes shining with tears.

"Guns first!" she squeaked, pointing towards the bar and herding them out of the closet. "No friends of mine are going to storm the castle half-cocked."

_A/N: Wait, what happens now? What kind of a teaser cliffie is this? I'm going to leave this writer a review and tell her exactly how fast she better update this damn irritating story. (P.S. It's the little button right there…)_


	32. Storm the Castle

**[Chapter 32: Storm the Castle]**

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_A/N: Thank you all for your infinite patience. Extra thanks to the Goddess of Betas._

* * *

_Callaghan's Pub, Monday Night (continued)_

_..._

Murphy and Connor cleared off the closet floor, making room for the cellar door to swing open. Rhonwen had already started loading ammo when the cell phone rang.

Connor answered.

"Smecker?" Murphy asked him.

Connor held up a finger. "Leah…Aye, it's good to hear your voice. I tried to call you."

"Ah, fuck. Here we go," Murphy muttered, turning to leave him in the office.

"Must be a _real_ fine piece of ass," Rhonwen said, not looking up from the magazine in her hands. "Better he gets it out of his system now." She slid the magazine in with a satisfying clap and began loading another.

Murphy followed the trail of metal in the flickering candlelight, and felt his breath catch. A third of the walnut bar before them was literally covered with prime, high-grade weaponry.

"Keep your pants on," Rhonwen told him. "You can take your pick, but these are my personal favorites, so don't think about getting sticky fingers."

"Jesus. Who do you think you're talking to?"

"Honey, the choirboy thing may work for the ladies on the other side of the law, but I think we can all agree your morals have some flexibility. I don't know far that stretches."

"I'm not a thief, Rhonnie. And if I was, I'm not stupid enough to steal from _you_. Christ." A reminder of what he was about to do for her formed on his tongue, but as he watched her struggle to load a .45 round with fingers that were shaking so badly she kept missing the opening, the words dissipated.

Her fingers stilled and he knew she felt him watching. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I'm just…If we get down there, and he's…"

"He won't be."

"You can't know that."

As much as he wanted to ease her mind, she wasn't the type to appreciate empty promises, and he wasn't the type to make them. So he gave her shoulder a squeeze and took a seat at the next stool.

Connor had wandered in from the office and was pacing then stopping, pacing then stopping, his end of the conversation sounding clipped and tense and not particularly jovial. Murphy couldn't help but wonder if Annie was near the other end of the line.

"What else needs loading?" Murphy asked, suddenly needing the feel of a weapon in his hand.

"Here," she said, sliding him a black pistol and a box of ammo. "I know you can do this one in the dark."

Murphy had to bring it close to be sure: a Beretta M-9. Sweet, merciful Lord.

He popped the magazine out and then aimed the gun at his brother. "This is a sign from God, Con. Get off the fucking phone."

Connor held up different finger. "Annie wants to talk to you."

The car. The body. Bobby fucking Vigoda and his ugly one-of-a-kind, unforgettable piece of vehicular shit. Several swear words tried to come out of Murphy's mouth at once, culminating in a delayed, "What?"

Connor started to hand over the phone, then hesitated, listening. "Oh. Nevermind. She doesn't."

"Come on, then," Rhonwen said. Something whipped Murphy on the arm. "Are you going to just stand there and hold it, or are you going to strap that piece on?"

Rhonwen held out a leather holster. He took it, glancing downward. "I sure hope Seamus can't hear through those floorboards."

"Oh, don't you worry, sweetie. If he's alive, I'm going to kill him myself. And then I'm going to put a bullet through that goddamn clock."

Connor joined them, the phone nowhere in sight. He found another shoulder holster on the bar and began to put it on.

"What'd Leah want?" Murphy asked.

Connor gave a shrug, glancing toward Rhonwen, whose back was turned. "You know how it is. Just wanted to hear my voice."

Rhonwen turned around. "Wow. It is a mystery why you can't keep a woman."

"That it is," Connor said. "Now, Rhonnie, what do you know about these booby traps?"

* * *

_Earlier that evening, elsewhere in South Boston…_

_..._

God damn Joshua Beckman.

She'd lied to him. Not just creative omissions this time – an actual lie. The rationalizing part of Annie's brain said it was to protect Murphy, to give him a chance to explain himself before she turned him in. The deep, dark, brutally honest part knew it was because if Beckman called him, he'd know exactly who'd given the detective his number. And he'd never forgive her.

But if he wasn't doing anything wrong, what did it matter?

It mattered because Murphy _was_ doing something wrong – maybe. She didn't know for sure. She wasn't sure she wanted to know for sure.

All it would take to clear this up was a simple phone call. All she had to do was press SEND. The number was right there, where it had been all afternoon…

"Who do you keep calling?" Leah asked, lowering the driver's side visor against the last streaming rays of setting sun.

"No one."

Leah reached for the phone, but Annie was quicker.

She tucked it in her jacket. "Beckman, all right? I want to know what was on that delivery order."

"Why? It's not all that interesting."

"How would you know?"

"I was standing right there when Smecker spotted it wedged between the seats."

Annie threw her hands up. "Why didn't you say so earlier?"

"Maybe I was hoping for a trade." Leah looked out the windshield. "I give you my two cents, and you…tell me about yours." Their eyes met for a split second. Annie's body temperature spiked about twenty degrees. She unzipped her coat, hearing herself say, "Fine. But you first. Do you remember what you saw on the delivery order?"

"Is that really the question you want to ask? Do I _remember_?"

"Fine. What was on the delivery order?"

Leah waited while Annie found a napkin to write on, then closed her eyes and recited the data rapidly, as if slowing down might make her die of boredom.

Nothing in the first two addresses, phone numbers, or food orders struck Annie as unusual. She took notes on the third.

"Slow down," she said as Leah got to the third order. "I didn't get that phone number."

Leah sighed. "Don't bother, I already tried it. It's a pay phone down the street from the restaurant. And don't waste your time looking into video surveillance. Mitchell checked and there's none close enough to be useful."

Wow. So Leah had been digging, and apparently consulting with her own cop connections. Annie worked to keep any trace of surprise off her face. Cooperation from Leah only happened when all the stars aligned, and she'd be stupid to jinx it. "The address is fake, obviously."

"Obviously. A trap—not exactly original, but effective."

"Someone had a score to settle." Annie frowned. Only one person came to mind.

They both thought about that for a moment, then Leah rattled off the contact information for the last order. "That's it. I honestly don't think there's much to it, other than the date and time." She brushed her hair back and took out her phone. "Beckman's just messing with your head, making you think he's got more than he really does. Believe me, he's really good at that."

"Yeah. I know."

"Don't worry. He's not the only source of information around." Leah put her phone to her ear.

The wind had gradually died down, and with the engine off and the street outside fairly deserted, the male voice that picked up after the first ring carried easily through the cab.

"_Leah."_

Annie froze at the sound of the accent. She'd danced around dialing that number the entire afternoon, while Leah did it without a second thought.

"Connor?"

Annie politely turned her focus to the brightly-lit windows of the gas station outside, but her ears remained tuned to the familiar voice.

"_Aye," _Connor said._ "It's good to hear your voice. I tried to call you._"

* * *

Leah took a breath, wishing it wasn't so very good to hear his. Why couldn't the man speak normal god-awful Bostonian like her and everyone else? "I've been pretty busy," she said.

"_Aye. Of course you have."_

Was that sarcasm? Or had he somehow seen her on the news? No, she'd gone out of her way to keep far, far away from the cameras today. If Connor knew what had happened, it was from an insider.

"_Still angry with me, are you?" _There was no contrition, only a dismissive sort of impatience that stung her deeply. Dear God, why had she called him? This was like drunk-dialing, but without the benefit of being drunk.

The cab seemed to have shrunk by several feet. Leah fought the heat flooding her cheeks, looking up as Annie fumbled for the door handle.

"I need coffee," Annie muttered. The door slammed, pushing a wave of cold air into the cab.

"_Are you?" _Was she still angry with him? His Irish lilt was deeper now-concerned.

"Depends. Are you still a liar?"

"_Leah, please. I told you, I-"_

"Did Duffy find prints on the can?"

A beat. "_He did_."

"Robert Vigoda's?"

"_Aye_." He wasn't going to volunteer anything.

Just a poor, well-intentioned man beaten down by a nagging, prying woman. She pulled herself up straighter. "Well, I'm not sure who I have to thank, but I guess I don't have to worry about coming home alone after dark anymore. Perhaps you caught the news tonight?"

There was a pause: Connor, the linguist, selecting his words. _"Body found by the harbor,"_ he said. _"Victim had ties to organized crime. Police suspect-"_

"Foul play," she finished for him. "Murder."

"_Does that surprise you? He was involved with some mighty bad people. People who might be counting on you coming home alone after dark. Do you have somewhere else you can stay for a while?"_

Pride and resentment swelled in her, eclipsing any flashes of fear she may have had. "What surprises me is that Duffy didn't say anything about the prints on the paint can. He didn't say anything to me at all."

"_Because he gave me his word that he wouldn't. I told you before-you can trust the man. I _know_ him."_

"How well do you know him? How does a guy like you have so much clout?"

He was silent for a moment, long enough for Leah to realize exactly how her words sounded.

"_I know his heart,"_ Connor said.

This, from a man who made children vomit to save them from lung cancer. The truth was really going to hurt him. "I don't think you know as much as you think you do."

"_For example?"_ His voice had gained an edge.

She took a breath, trying to ignore the swirl of unnamed feelings and concentrate on the facts. "For example, how did Duffy get to where he is today? How might he have managed to make detective after only two short years on patrol?" They were reasonable questions, really. It was Connor's inexplicable loyalty that tainted the logic. Why couldn't he just figure this out on his own?

"_I know how far he'll go to do what's right. That's good enough for me."_ His words were clipped. "_Where are these questions coming from?"_

She wanted to tell him. No, she didn't want to tell him, but she wanted him to _know_. The silence stretched. Leah could hear voices in the background, one of them female. Outside, Annie struggled to make it out the gas station door, holding two coffees and hunching her shoulders against the cold and other hurried customers preoccupied with getting home from work as quickly as possible.

"_Leah."_ Connor's voice was soft again, his accent wrapping around her name like silk, "_Darlin', I know you're afraid of something. But I can't help you if you don't talk to me_."

"I'm not afraid," she said, but the denial was hollow, even to her ears.

Connor sighed. "_This is too hard over the phone_. _When can I see you?"_

Her stomach flipped. She stared at her zip-tie scar, remembering the feel of Connor's hand, warm and strong under hers. The shock of electricity when he'd smoothed his thumb across her palm. The stab of betrayal when those cans had spilled from his car.

The passenger door opened with a burst of cold, coffee-scented air. Annie climbed in awkwardly with the to-go cups, her jacket rustling against the vinyl seat so that Leah almost missed the second Irish voice yelling in the background for Connor to get off the phone.

"Is that your brother?" Leah asked. "He's actually why I called. Annie wants to talk to him."

"No, I don't," Annie hissed, spilling coffee on her hand.

Leah covered the mouthpiece. "Don't be such a baby. We both know it's not Beckman you've been dialing up all afternoon."

Annie kicked her door back open and left it there.

"Fine, forget it," Leah said, blowing out a sigh. "Listen, I gotta go. I'm working."

"_You off tomorrow?"_

Maybe. She'd been trying to pick up some extra shifts, and there was an open one across town, close to her old response area. But the words mysteriously evaporated from her brain. Connor MacManus was an unknown quantity, at a time when security was more precious to her than ever before. So what if his motives always seemed honorable (after the fact, in retrospect, from a slightly biased angle.) Retreat was the smarter option here. Caution. Sharp blue eyes and a mind-melting accent were only debilitating when she was subjected to them face-to-face.

"_Tomorrow, Leah. Answer your phone this time."_

And then the words were blinking on her phone: _call ended_.

Damn_._

"What was that all about?" Annie asked.

"Shut the door. It's freezing in here."

Annie drank her coffee. A chilly wind swirled into the cab. "Tell me what Connor had to say."

"He thinks you should marry his brother and have a dozen babies, so they can all have dual-citizenship."

"You're a bitch, you know that?"

"If you wanted the scoop, you should have taken the phone."

Annie practiced killing Leah with her eyes. "Here," she said. "Take your coffee."

"You didn't put creamer in it, did you?"

"No, dear. It's black, like your heart."

She shut the door and Leah smiled, cranking up the heater. "Do Connor and Murphy have a sister?"

"No. Why?"

"I thought I heard a woman talking with Murphy. I'm starving-sandwiches okay with you?"

Annie took a moment to buckle her seat belt. "Anything but Chinese."

It was full-on rush hour now, and Leah was in no mood to wait. She turned down a side street and carved a zigzag pattern through South Boston to a deli that was small but dependably speedy. Two bites into her hot turkey and Swiss, they got a call for altered level of consciousness. It turned out to be a diabetic blue-hair in need of a Snickers bar, which, due to a lack of teeth, meant Annie got to practice her needle skills.

Afterwards, they found a quiet street with decent parking. Leah pulled to the curb and finished her sandwich quickly before anything else could interrupt. Her coffee was lukewarm, but not yet cold. They'd actually made pretty good time on the call.

Annie was messing with her phone again, and it took all Leah had not to comment on it. But perhaps Annie sensed the attention, because a moment later the phone was out of sight and she was staring idly into the side-view mirror. Leah swirled her coffee and watched the occasional car pass them by. She turned on the radio, discovered every single Boston-area DJ sucked, and turned it off again.

"I'm impressed," she told Annie finally, "You handled that call really well. Didn't pass out or anything."

"I have never passed out on the job. That time with Murphy I may have gotten a little...shakey, but that was a one-time, freak occurrence. It's not going to happen again." She toyed with the controls on her armrest, adjusting the mirror. "And by the way, in my off hours, people _pay_ to let me stick them with needles. They even tip."

"Oh, right. I forgot you moonlight on the dark side."

"Is it supposed to freeze tonight?"

"Probably. Rain's not supposed to hit until tomorrow. Why?"

"There's a guy, parked two cars behind us, all bundled up—hat, gloves, scarf. He's been sitting there this whole time, with his engine off."

"Average citizens don't generally burn up their gas idling like we do." Leah checked her own mirror but the angle was bad. She supposed she could probably press her head against the glass to get a view, but the glass would be cold and she wasn't that motivated. "He's probably just waiting for someone."

Fifteen minutes later, Annie was still staring in her mirror and her tanned California forehead was getting all wrinkly with worry.

"I think he's homeless," she said. "There's a shelter a couple blocks that way. I feel like I should go tell him."

Leah thought of Gerard and his worn Foreign Legion jacket. She rolled down her window and leaned out into the cold to see in the mirror. "He's not homeless," she said with a scoff. "Look at him drinking his Starbucks."

"He can't be homeless and drink Starbucks?"

"If the goal was to keep warm, he'd be getting his drinks from that pub over there."

"Wow. You're on a roll. Any other pearls of profiling wisdom I should know?"

"Oh, please. Educated guess based on statistics and personal experience. You want to be sure, go knock on his window."

"Whatever. I guess he could always go inside to keep warm." Annie looked out towards the pub. "Although, I'm not sure it's open. That's odd. It should be happy hour."

"Who knows? I hear that place goes by its own rules." Leah squinted into the darkness outside. "But maybe I'm just _profiling_. Not _all_ Southie Irish pubs operate outside the law, and my outrageous claim is based solely on vicious rumor, not personal experience."

"You've never been in there? What about bar fights?"

Leah shook her head. "I haven't worked this neighborhood that long, but Ortie told me about this place. They get calls every couple weeks—always for slip-and-falls, never for this _particular_ address. They never call for cops, and even the medics they never want inside. The patients are always drunk, two doors down, sitting on the curb. But for all the split lips and black eyes and mild concussions, no one ever points a finger. No one wants their name on a report, no one wants a ride to the hospital. I told him we should come for drinks sometime, just to get a look inside."

"I've been inside."

"You? Oh, let me guess. With the Dubliner twins."

"They're not from Dublin. But yeah, they know the owner."

Her phone rang, cutting off Leah's next question. It was Beckman. Annie cringed and pushed the red button like it was hot. They waited, but no voicemail alert came. Leah raised her brows.

The phone rang again. Looking extremely pained, Annie answered it. Beckman seemed to be just checking in on her. Interesting. Beckman didn't strike her as someone who actually cared about people, nor someone who harassed for the fun of it. Certainly, he seemed to enjoy others' discomfort—but he didn't act without a purpose. He was up to something.

* * *

The radio tones couldn't have gone off at a better time. Annie said a hasty goodbye, relief still in her voice as she acknowledged the call from Med-Com. It wasn't until Leah took a sharp left turn and the phone came sliding back towards her that Annie realized she'd thrown it across the dashboard.

* * *

Murphy had never worn so many leather straps. Both brothers wore a shoulder holster of Seamus's. Connor carried a .45 in his. Murphy didn't feel right without that 9mm Beretta he'd missed for so long. It wasn't his original, of course, but it was close, and if all went well, it would do a fine lot of bodily harm. They also had two ankle holsters each, which Murphy doubted he'd use, but gave in at Rhonwen's insistence. Apparently, she had a surplus that hadn't yet made it downstairs to the cache. Connor carried a .22 in each of his. Murphy carried the same, with an additional knife holster fitted to his right thigh.

Rhonnie checked them over, making sure all their straps were secure. "Make sure you can reach everything comfortably, without looking. I'll get to the breaker as soon as I can, but most of this is probably going down in the dark."

Murphy looked at Connor. "That's fine thinking, love, but we're going to need you to hold tight right here."

Rhonwen chuckled. "Nice try."

"I'm serious, Rhonnie. It's the best way."

"No fucking way, Murphy. Take the lead if you want, but I'm the one who knows the layout down there. I'm not letting this thing go south because you've got some chauvinistic stick up your arse."

"Whoa, girl, you _did_ forget who you're talking to," Connor said. "If things go south-if we get pinned down or if one gets past us – we need you on the high ground, pickin' 'em off before they see the light of day. Or, any light at all."

Rhonwen frowned.

"What if somebody trips a flash-bang?" Murphy said. "Or if somebody hears shots fired, cops get nosy, we need somebody legitimate up here telling them everything's fucking fine." He held a candle up for emphasis, letting the light fall on Connor's still-healing black eye.

"He's right." Connor pushed the candle away. "There's no point saving your man's ass just to get it busted."

Rhonwen adjusted her hip holster.

"Door's going to be open behind us," Murphy told her. "Eventually, someone's going to come up those stairs. If you don't see a handsome face, you take the shot. Unless it's Connor."

Rhonwen's eyes looked too tired to smile. "You remember the traps?"

"Inner door threshold, and top of the cage."

She locked eyes with him for several long moments, and then did the same with Connor. "Okay, then," she said. "Get to it."

She took two steps back and raised her pistol. There wasn't enough room in the closet to flatten against a wall as one would normally do when entering a potentially dangerous room, so Murphy kept his Berretta raised and ready while Connor got a firm but silent grip on the door. On a nod of three, Connor pulled it open.

If it was dark in the bar, the stairs to the cellar were a black hole. The lingering odor of peppers hung stale and spicy in the air. Murphy held his breath, not against the smell, but to listen for any sound in the darkness. Connor's head cocked to the side. There was a shuffling, a scuttling that might have been a person moving. Or a rat. Or the building settling, or ambient sound carrying through from next door or outside. Or Seamus, still alive and praying for a rescue. Connor's brows rose. Murphy shrugged. Whatever it was, it wasn't on the stairs. No reason to shoot. No reason not to get on with it.

Connor descended, reaching a hand backwards after the first step to press against Murphy's leg. _Take it slow_. Murphy counted three more of his brother's creaking footfalls before starting down. And nearly falling on his ass. The stairs were oily, like someone had greased them with WD-40. Must have been the pepper spray. Four canisters' worth, Rhonwen had said, all concentrated in a small, sealed space, with no way to vent the air and no place for the airborne irritant to settle except on every available surface. Pure misery for the sap that triggered it. Probably no picnic for everyone else stuck down there, too, even if they weren't nearby when it went off.

He concentrated on balance, bracing a boot heel against the rise of each step before taking the next. By the fifth step he'd gotten cocky and almost lost it again. Jesus, that would just top it all.

He neared the bottom and Connor's hand halted him again. Murphy placed his left hand lightly on Connor's shoulder in time to feel his brother drop to a crouch and move forward. There was a smell down here, too. Like peppers, but stronger. Like the peppers had started to rot.

After a moment Connor stood, took Murphy by the forearm and pulled him down, down, into a crouch on the concrete floor. His boot hit something that didn't give. Connor moved Murphy's hand down onto something both soft and firm. A body. A body that wasn't breathing. _Please, please not Seamus_.

He started to go for his flashlight, but Connor kept hold of his wrist, moving his hand awkwardly upward along the body to the face, sliding it over the chin. It was sticky, with what, Murphy had no desire to know. Christ, they couldn't let Rhonwen see him like this. He pulled his hand back, feeling sick, but still Connor held, making him feel the chin again. Then Murphy understood. It was smooth. No goatee.

Murphy took a breath of stagnant air.

Okay. One down, two to go. Murphy nodded, which of course Connor couldn't see in the dark, but the message was received. They rose together and began to move across the floor.

He pictured the low-ceilinged room lined with storage shelves, and instinctively moved toward the section that was mounted on the door to the back room. In his mind, the floor was smooth, clutter-free concrete. In reality, it was worse than the imploded office upstairs. He stumbled on something hard and side-stepped to catch his balance, only to crack his shin against something else hard and unforgiving. In the same moment, Connor kicked something that scraped across the concrete and clattered against a metal shelf. Up the stairs, he heard Rhonwen swear.

Murphy cringed, dropping to a crouch, whipping out his flashlight along with the Beretta, finding the on-button but not pushing it just yet. He aimed both towards where he hoped was the door. No hope of a sneak attack now. The plan to blind the bastards was about all they had left.

Time seemed to have stopped. Murphy began to count the seconds. After thirty, no one had come. After sixty, his knees began to hurt. After ninety, he heard Connor's own knee pop from somewhere to his right as his brother stood up. There was another sound then—a rustling, dragging sound. And then a muffled shout, a thud, and a groan. Someone had tried to call out and had been silenced. Odds were on Seamus. A new fire lit within him, and he had to force himself to think rationally.

If it was Connor and himself trapped in their enemy's cellar, they'd make the enemy come to them, pick them off as they came single-file through the door. Or wait it out in a stronghold – make them think the coast was clear and then lure them into an ambush.

With Seamus's arsenal, it would be nothing short of apocalyptic.

He glanced up the stairs, at the faint, almost undetectable glow of Rhonwen's candle. His thumb twitched, hovering over the flashlight switch. Busting through that door with their shining flashlights would make them instant targets. Blinded or not, all the fuckers had to do was point their submachine guns towards the light and squeeze.

There had to be a better way.

With his pistol in one hand and the flashlight in the other, he crawled toward the door, picking his way past what he finally realized was an overturned crate of the cursed weapons that had caused this whole debacle in the first place. Too bad there wasn't any ammo laying around on this side of the cellar.

Ahead and to the right, Connor's shuffling ceased. He must have reached the door.

Connor shuffled back to him. "Shut but not latched," he whispered.

"What about the trip wire?"

"I could feel it still laying flush in the threshold. If Seamus set it, it won't pop up 'til the door's fully open, so when the time comes, step lively."

"Aye, good thinking." It would have been easier if the wire had already been tripped, but at least the closed door had one advantage: if anyone was alive behind it, they'd already heard the noise he and Connor had made. With the door shut, turning on a flashlight now wasn't going to do any harm.

Murphy switched his on, and swept the room quickly. There were fierce-looking assault rifles scattered everywhere, and black foam and broken shards of a wooden crate-but no more bodies. The light fell on a broom in the corner and he got an idea.

Connor had positioned himself at the door with one boot braced against it while Murphy found a roll of packaging tape and got to work. When the flashlight was securely lashed to the handle, he crouched beside the door.

Connor looked to him. "Ready?"

"Do it."

Connor kicked in the door, then backed up and Murphy angled the broomstick with shining flashlight attached through the doorway.

The cellar exploded with sound. The door splintered like campfire kindling. At the first lull, Murphy moved the light around. When it didn't draw more fire, he looked at Connor. It was either over or it wasn't.

They stepped in as one, sweeping their lights through the room as they moved. He eyes strained to focus. It was like the plaza all over again, but worse—in the plaza he'd at least had streetlights and the ambulance's flashing strobe. There, it was distance that had been the main factor. Here the space was smaller, but he felt like a street performer juggling his gun in one hand and the heavy flashlight strapped awkwardly to a fucking stick in the other. There were shapes, large and small, light and dark, blurring and blending and tricking his eyes and his mind and any second now that sub-machine gun was going to get reloaded and take one or both of them out before they even got off a shot.

It'd be Connor first. His light was a more direct target.

Murphy ripped the flashlight free and ditched the stick, then kept advancing. Then he caught it – two sets of eyes reflecting back at him from inside the cage. Bound to a low chair, his mouth sealed with tape, was Seamus – bloody, but conscious. Beside him stood a dark-haired man with a two-day beard holding a pistol in each hand, one barrel to the Irishman's head, and one pointed at them through the cage.

His mouth moved, and his face contorted, so Murphy knew he was shouting. He couldn't hear a word. Someone had just emptied a full sub-machine gun mag into a confined concrete space; he couldn't hear _anything_, and doubted the man could either, aside from a constant, high-pitched ringing.

Connor split from him, moving toward one side of the cage. The man's aim wavered for a moment, then settled on Connor. A prayer that was more feeling than actual words left Murphy's heart. He fired at center mass. Saw the look of surprise as the first bullet hit. The next one sparked off the chain link, but all the rest, including Connor's, found their marks. The body hit the floor.

Two down. Where was number three?

Seamus had turned away when the bullets started flying. He uncurled himself now, squinting in the glare of Murphy's light. Then he turned as much of his bound body as he could and stared hard towards the right-hand side of the cage, the side Connor was closest to. Murphy followed his gaze, flicking his light down to catch the third man scooting along the outside of the cage, dragging an apparently injured leg and what looked like one of the assault rifles from the shipment.

Murphy closed in quickly, keeping his light directly in the man's eyes and cheated away from Connor. As if to shield from the light, the man raised a hand–and the assault rifle. Connor kicked it from his grip. This had to be the one Rhonwen called Big Ugly. For obvious reasons. Murphy put a barrel to his forehead.

"Get up," he said, his voice strangely hollow-sounding in his own head. "Slowly."

Big Ugly sneered at him, but didn't move. Murphy tapped his skull with the barrel. Big Ugly's hands raised in quasi-surrender. Connor gave him a motivating nudge with his boot, and they backed up a pace while he struggled to his feet. He towered several inches over both of them.

Murphy looked at Connor. "_Lights_," Connor mouthed.

In the cage, Seamus was wiggling and straining, trying to work out of his restraints. Murphy made absolutely sure Connor had the reins, then shined his light high on the chain-link gate entrance to the cage. Rhonwen had said there'd be a wire running along the top connected to flash-bang. Seamus saw him and shook his head impatiently.

"Are we good?" Murphy asked loudly.

Seamus nodded.

_Good enough for me_. He entered the cage. Holding the flashlight in his mouth, he scraped and pulled layers of damp duct tape away from his friend's face. The odor of blood and sweat was thick and unavoidable. He freed Seamus's top lip first, stopping at the goatee.

"Fuck. Thanks, mate," Seamus said, working and stretching his jaw, the tape still clinging to his chin. His words seemed to come from very far away, but they were enough.

"It's good to hear your voice," Murphy told him. "Where's the breaker?"

Seamus tilted his head wearily, looking behind Murphy. His lips, swollen and mottled from the tape, cracked into a smile. "Do I get to kill the wop first? Good of you lads to save him for me."

"How about we get some lights on first."

Seamus frowned in concession. "On the wall," he said, nodding to his right, "under the flag."

Big Ugly snarled as Murphy passed. "Hands behind your head," came Connor's muted order through the darkness. "Or my life gets easier and yours gets shorter."

Murphy found the main breaker and flipped it. The overhead fluorescents flickered on. Seamus groaned. Murphy blinked and looked around. It was like breaking dawn in a war zone. Most of the weapons from the cage had been dumped in another corner, some stuffed in crates and boxes, as if the trapped thugs had expected not only to get out alive, but to take a load of goodies along with them.

Murphy barely heard the footfalls on the stairs before Rhonwen appeared in the doorway.

"Watch it!"

She didn't need the warning. She stepped easily over the threshold wire and into the room. Her pistol was raised and ready and moving in sync with her eyes as she took it all in. To her great credit, she didn't shoot anyone.

Seamus cleared his throat. "Hey, baby."

Something passed over her face and Murphy found himself intercepting her at the cage entrance. Big Ugly smirked at her as she neared. She gave Connor a look. "Why is he still breathing?"

"Good lads are savin' him for me, that's why." Seamus smiled, the tape still hanging on his chin.

She turned to him, stepping through the pool of Mafioso blood to take stock of his bruises and cuts. Seamus looked away, his smile faltering. Rhonwen stepped back. "You hurt?"

"Who me? Baby, I could go another ten rounds."

"Good." She hit him. Not a slap—a good solid right hook that spun his head sideways. "Round _one_."

She reared back for round two. Murphy caught her fist in his palm. "Nice one. Now cool it."

Seamus slowly raised his head. "Fuck, babe."

"Don't you call me that, you lying piece of shit." Murphy had a solid grip on her, but she managed to push him back a step. "I thought we were on the same side, Murphy."

Seamus spit blood into the growing pool. "I thought we were _all_ on the same side."

Murphy tweaked his hips just a bit sideways. She wouldn't use her pistol, but her knees were another matter. "That's enough, darlin'. There's a time and place."

Rhonwen was livid. "I see nothing wrong with here and now."

"Jesus. Someone wanna cut me loose first?" Seamus's shoulders flexed, but his wrists stayed firmly tied. "What are you, knittin' sweaters over there, Con?"

Connor shifted his stance, so his weapon, held on Big Ugly, was in plain view.

"Murph," he said without taking his eyes off the hostage. "I don't see any other chairs, and the couch isn't going to cut it."

Seamus glanced up at Big Ugly. "You're not serious." He looked at Murphy, incensed. "Man, what the fuck? This nightmare needs to end. Someone give me a piece."

"I've already got one." Rhonwen spun from Murphy's grasp, raising her pistol to the big, ugly face on the other side of the cage.

"Not just yet, Rhon," Connor said lightly, his eyes flicking briefly to Murphy, then back to his captive. "We're going to have a little chat with this one first."

Murphy's hands were still hovering over her shoulders. He reached forward and gently pushed her arms downward, whispering in her ear, "I promise-later, he's all yours.

Seamus cleared his throat. "That isn't necessary."

Suddenly overly aware of his position, Murphy stepped aside. Seamus raised an eyebrow. Feeling his neck warm, Murphy took a breath and switched to Irish. _"Listen,"_ he said. _"Any other time, it's your house-your rules. But right now…"_

Seamus rolled his eyes wearily. "Just say what you're going to say, Murph."

"We need some information-"

"You've got _me_. I've been listening to these guidos for-I don't even know, what time is it?"

"_Ten_." Rhonwen said, holstering her pistol and stalking out of the cage. She picked up the assault rifle from where Connor had kicked it. "Let's take a vote," she said as she looked the gun over. She hooked its shoulder strap over her index finger, lifting it high for display. "Who here wants to put their faith in Mr. Callaghan's fine mental faculties?"

"Fuck, Rhonnie, they were takin' what was ours!"

Big Ugly scoffed. "You stole from the Man, you stupid Mick. He's gonna take it back-with interest."

Connor kicked him in his injured leg, nearly dropping him to the floor.

Rhonwen leaned in close, pointing the rifle under his chin. "Aye, how's that working out for you so far?"

Murphy came out of the cage. "Rhonwen." She was too close. This was getting out of hand.

"Get up," Connor ordered.

Big Ugly gripped the cage as if to haul himself up, but instead one hand snaked out and snatched at the assault rifle. The strap yanked Rhonwen's hand down with it and in an instant he had her arms twisted behind her and the rifle barrel jammed under her jaw.

Murphy pulled up short, pointing his drawn pistol away from Rhonwen, to Ugly's face. "Let her go."

Seamus levitated the chair, landing hard on his side on the concrete. "Rhonnie!"

"Like I said," Ugly snarled, "_with interest_."

"Shoot him," Rhonwen said, her voice strained from having her chin tipped up. "The mag's empty, I checked it myself."

"You wanna take that chance?" Ugly asked, smiling as he pulled her roughly against him. "You squeeze, I squeeze."

Fuck. Murphy's eyes met Connor's. "_There could be one in the chamber,"_ Murphy said in Irish.

Rhonwen's brows furrowed.

"_If it's empty, he emptied it_," Connor said. "_And he's bluffing_."

"_No way to tell, short of countin' holes in the door._"

Ugly's eyes darted down over Rhonwen's chest to her shoulder holsters, both of which held pistols with mags that were most assuredly not empty. Ugly looked at Murphy. Ugly looked at Connor.

_Go ahead_, Murphy thought. _Switch weapons. See if you can do it faster than this ball of lead travels through your gray matter._

Ugly was smarter than he looked. He tightened his grip on Rhonwen's hands, twisting them up behind her back until she cried out. "Drop your weapons," he ordered Connor and Murphy.

Neither MacManus moved an inch.

"Right now! Both of you!"

Seamus swore under his breath. "Come on lads," he pleaded. "Take it down a notch. We can work this out."

"Her life's your only ticket out of here," Connor told Ugly. "You kill her, you're killing yourself."

"She can live without fingers. And toes, and ears." Spittle flew with his words, landing in Rhonwen's hair. Murphy saw in the flatness of his eyes – he spoke from experience. Yanking Rhonwen along with him, he began to hobble backwards towards the exit, grunting with every limping step.

Connor and Murphy followed one cautious step at a time, waiting for any opportunity. Taking out his weapon hand was their best chance of getting him to drop it without firing, but that hand remained square in the middle of Rhonwen's chest.

They were nearing the inner door, gaining speed. It almost looked like Rhonwen was helping, letting him lean on her for support. If they made it to the other room …

Murphy moved swiftly, closing in.

They were a step from the door when Rhonwen locked eyes with him. "Back off," she snapped. "Snakes and rats!"

Fuck.

He mashed one ear against a shoulder and shut his eyes.

_Click-_

The world went white and silent. He opened his eyes and white turned to purple, then to black. He blinked repeatedly, forcefully. It made no difference. He floated sideways. Something hard hit both his knees. Knuckles banged the floor. His gun was still in his hand.

_Get up, get up!_ He couldn't stop going sideways. A hand grabbed his leg.

Connor. Light creeped in on the peripheral. Connor leaned hard on Murphy's shoulder, then pulled him up, holding on until Murphy could stand on his own. A dark rectangle in front of them – the doorway. Movement on the floor.

He took a step; it felt like swimming. Rhonwen was on her knees, feeling blindly around her with both hands. Ugly was on his back. Was he out? Where was the rifle? Rhonwen patted along Ugly's fat gut, but she was on his left side. The rifle had been in his right hand– still was, Murphy saw, as it lifted. A fat finger found the trigger.

Connor lunged forward, tackling Rhonwen, rolling her to the side.

Murphy fired, strangely relieved that he could hear the shots, and not just feel them. Ugly grimaced, turned the rifle on Murphy. Muzzle flash and a flying chip of concrete from the wall beside him – aye, there'd been one in the chamber after all. Murphy kept firing. Three, four, five rounds. A pop of red - the hand flinched, the rifle dropped.

Rhonwen pushed herself free of Connor, lurched over Ugly, snatched the rifle and swung it by the barrel in a wild arc, slamming the stock into the side of his skull. His big, ugly head thudded back onto the concrete.

Murphy hauled her off. She dropped the gun immediately.

"Shit, that's hot!"

Murphy chuckled, releasing her, but she held onto him a moment longer. He felt breath on his ear and pushed her gently away. She laughed. "I said _I'm sorry,_" she yelled, "and _thank you_!"

"Thank us when it's over," Murphy said, watching his brother feel for a pulse.

Connor shook his head, then checked his watch. "It's not over yet – but it's going to be a long fucking intermission." His head tilted – were those shouts coming from the other room?

Christ—Seamus.

"Go," Connor said, "I'll watch Ugly."

In the cage, Murphy hauled Seamus's chair upright, then handed Rhonwen his knife. "Can I trust you with this?" She made a face and took it, meeting Seamus's eyes briefly before freeing his wrists. He worked his beard free silently as she sliced through the tape around his chest and legs.

Murphy dragged the body into the corner where they wouldn't trip on it, but there was no quick solution for the blood. Seamus tried to stand too quickly and slipped, collapsing back into the chair with a curse. Murphy pulled Seamus's arm over his shoulder and helped him to his feet. Rhonwen picked up the chair.

"What are you doing?" Seamus asked.

"I guess we don't have to put him in the chair," Rhonwen said, looking at Murphy. "He's gonna weigh a ton knocked out."

"You didn't kill him?" Seamus's chest was pressed against Murphy's arm and Murphy could actually feel his friend's heart rate spike. "For fuck's sake, Murph – look what just happened! He almost-" he hesitated, not looking at Rhonwen, but willing Murphy to understand. "It needs to be over. I'll do it myself if I have to."

"With all due respect, man—no you won't."

Seamus stopped walking.

"He can't talk if he's dead," Murphy said simply. "It's not your call this time."

Rhonwen looked Seamus. Then they both looked at Murphy. Something seemed to shift.

Seamus's jaw muscle tightened. "Fine. Get what you need from him. But he doesn't walk out of here."

"He's not walkin' anywhere," Connor said, helping Seamus through the doorway and around the body at the bottom of the stairs. "But by the sound of that snoring, we've got a couple hours to kill first."

Even cuffed to the steel shelving, no one was comfortable leaving Ugly there alone, though Seamus admitted that once he got the video surveillance back on-line, they'd know the moment he awoke. Connor volunteered for the first watch.

Murphy and Rhonwen helped Seamus up the stairs and into the office.

After a moment of shock, he limped through the wreckage and retrieved the security monitor from the floor beside the desk. "I guess my message wasn't as clear as I thought."

Rhonwen's eyes closed at the understatement of the millennium. "I'll find the first-aid kit," she said, disappearing into the bar area.

Seamus watched her go, and saw the spread of weapons on the bar. "Fuck," he muttered. "Murph, I'm so fucking sorry about this. I owe you my life, man."

_No, not to me_. Murphy shrugged. "You'd do the same for me." They watched Rhonwen clear the weapons from the bar, returning them to their hiding places. "You go on, get cleaned up." _And take it like a man._

Rhonwen taped and bandaged. Seamus held his breath and gritted his teeth. Murphy brought him some beer nuts and pretzels and a pint of Guinness, which Rhonwen replaced with water, some reheated pot stickers and a power bar. With a smile, Murphy took the pint for himself, pulled another for Connor, and escaped down the cellar, saying a prayer for Seamus's soul.

A few hours later, Ugly was still out, and the cellar was nearly cleaned up. Seamus had nodded off while Rhonwen had been taping his broken fingers, and they'd decided he needed the sleep more than they needed the extra hand.

They'd also decided that Ugly-watch could be done from the top of the stairs, in the closet. Again, Connor took the first shift.

Seamus lay stretched out atop the bar, snoring loudly through his bruised nose. Murphy watched him, wondering how long he would have made it if they hadn't gone down when they did.

"What?" Rhonwen asked.

"I want to know what happens now. Someone's going to come looking for those guys. And that Caddie. And sure as hell they'll come for the guns."

"You talk to Seamus about that. This is _his_ fault."

"That's not my point-"

_KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK._

Rhonwen's eyes went wide. Murphy held his breath.

"Guys?" Connor said from the closet.

They both shushed him.

"I thought you put up a sign," Murphy said quietly.

"Of course I did!" she hissed. She tiptoed to the door with Murphy right behind her.

"No peephole?" he mouthed.

"Video monitor's in the office…somewhere."

"Could just be customers."

Another knock and Rhonwen nearly jumped out of her skin. There were voices on the other side, muffled.

"If it was cops, they'd have said so by now."

"Shit!" She squeezed her temples, and Murphy caught the glisten of imminent tears. "They'll come to the back. That's how they got in last time."

Murphy took her hands and crossed them over her twin holsters. However she felt, she wasn't helpless. She drew the guns, nodding curtly. "I got this," she said, her game face back on. "You and Connor take the back."

"Don't open it," he told her. "Whatever you do. You make them break down the door."

….

-o-0-o-

_A/N: I swear, I wanted to post the whole entire thing, but it was 38 pages long. The rest is ready for beta…I won't keep you waiting ANY longer than absolutely necessary. You guys are awesome._


	33. Siren

**[Chapter 33: Siren]**

_"…You make them break down the door."_

* * *

_[Earlier that night, Leah & Annie]_

The emergency call was for a vehicle versus pedestrian, a quick trip to the level one trauma center at Beth Israel. Two minutes after they cleared, another call came in, for chest pain, which they took to MGH. All in all, it was the better part of three hours by the time they were back in service.

Leah turned back up the same quiet South Boston street where they'd parked before, but in the opposite direction this time, parking directly in front of the Irish pub instead of across the street from it.

"Check it out," she said, pointing diagonally across the street. "That same guy's still sitting there in his car."

"You couldn't park by an _open_ business?" Annie grumbled. "Do you know how much coffee I've had tonight?"

"One cup."

"Yeah, well, it's going right through me."

"You could've gone at the hospital."

"I would have, if someone wasn't in such a hurry to leave once they called the cardiac surgeon for a consult." Leah didn't comment. Annie unbuckled her seatbelt. "I guess I'll go see if the pub's open."

"Good luck," Leah said. "Still looks closed to me."

"Only one way to be sure. Come with me, you can ogle the place while I pee."

Leah didn't bother to tell her it was an excellent suggestion. Or would have been, if the door hadn't been locked up tight.

"Damn it," Annie breathed.

Leah rapped hard on the wood. "I think I hear someone in there."

Annie danced from one foot to the other.

"What are you, five?"

"If I was five, my mother would have parked somewhere with an open bathroom."

Leah knocked again. "Is there a secret knock I'm supposed to know?"

Annie rolled her eyes. "It's just like any other bar—except _really_ Irish, like old-country. Even with Murphy, I always felt like a tourist."

"You never saw anything strange?" Leah asked, noticing a small camera attached to the top of a wrought iron sconce. "Like, illegal strange?"

Annie's impatient shuffling paused for a moment. "They take their soccer pool _very_ seriously. Might be more than pocket change at stake." She shot Leah an amused look. "What do you think goes on in there?"

"My imagination runs wild. Drugs? Prostitution? Tariff-free beer imports?"

"Ooh, don't talk about beer. Forget this, I'm going to waddle down to the Dunkies."

"No you won't. We'll drive."

Afterwards, Leah couldn't resist returning to the same parking spot. The other car was still there. It had dark paint, a split front grill, and a little dot of a logo on the hood. A familiar uneasy feeling began to take hold, and her brain automatically raced into rewind to pinpoint where she'd seen it before.

As usual, her memory served like a five-star concierge, dishing up the image of a black BMW 528 that had been parked alongside Agent Smecker's Audi at the harbor that afternoon. What was it doing here?

She'd barely taken her hand off the gearshift when Annie's phone rang.

"Ugh," Annie muttered, silencing it. "Beckman, just leave me _alone._"

Seconds later, her voicemail alert chimed. And immediately after came a text message. Annie checked it and Leah watched a faint white glow fade from fifty feet away, feeling a chill wrap around her heart.

"You should call him back," Leah said.

"_You_ call him back."

"Okay." Leah held out her hand.

Annie hesitated.

"What? I'll tell him you're busy writing reports."

"Is that all you're going to tell him?"

"Oh, I see. You're worried I'll rat you out about your big penny score."

Annie looked at her seriously. "Can I ask you something?"

"You do realize you're going to have to reciprocate at some point."

"What do you think about the Saints?"

Leah turned the heater down a notch. "I'm assuming you're not referring to Saint Michael, Saint Jude, Saint Anthony-"

Annie articulated her words carefully. "What's your take on vigilante killers who execute random people in the name of short-cut justice and religious extremism?"

"I wouldn't say they kill _random_ people-"

"Okay. So you support them." The disappointment in Annie's voice was surprisingly hard to take. "God, and you're not even religious."

"Is this about the coins?"

Annie reached in her pocket, deep down. She held her palm out to Leah, two bright pennies reflecting the greenish light of the radio display. "Those cameras we were avoiding today? That's who they do it for. To show off, to get attention, to spread fear. It's arrogant, and it's disgusting. I had the chance to stop it, so I did. I'm not sorry."

"It's evidence," Leah told her, quietly pulling out her phone. "If you really want them stopped, you would give it to the cops."

"Look who's talking. They wouldn't leave anything on the pennies. I don't think the Saints are stupid, at least not when it comes to that."

"Neither is Beckman. And neither am I. You think I don't know his number? I just figured he'd answer for sure if it was you." She already had her contacts pulled up, and Beckman was right near the top.

Her eyes were locked on the distant windshield when she pressed send. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand…the call connected. It rang once on her end. The man in the car was a darkened blur—darker than before, like he was looking down and she was seeing the black fabric of his beanie instead of his face. Suddenly, a white light blinked on from below. The dark and the distance made it difficult to see clearly, but there was no mistaking his left hand raising the lit-up phone to his ear.

Beckman's voice came on the line, with forced patience. "_Yes?"_

"Enjoying the view?"

A long pause. So long that the tiniest seed of a doubt sprouted in her heart. Could she be wrong about this?

Then the man in the car looked up, directly back at her. _"Not as much as I was five minutes ago,_" Beckman said._ "Your ride makes a better door than a window."_

Holy. Crap. Why did being right always feel worse than being wrong? She tried to form a snappy comeback, but her racing heart was hogging all the blood from her brain.

Annie poked her in the arm, her face forming the universal expression for _what the fuck_?

Leah pointed across the street.

"Oh, my God," Annie whispered. "Seriously?"

Leah nodded.

"He's been here for hours! What is he doing here?" Annie hissed. Her eyes shifted to the pub, and a line creased between her brows.

"What are you doing here, Detective?"

"_Working late, like you."_

"Who are you staking out?"

Beckman chuckled. "_That's need-to-know information, I'm afraid._"

Annie to lean closer to hear, looking suddenly pale.

"Oh, come on," Leah said. "We're all on the same side here. What is it, meth? Gambling? Clandestine meeting of bad criminal types?"

Beckman laughed again, a hollow, pretentious sound._ "How does it feel, Leah? To want something and have someone else refuse to give it up? You girls just move along, and leave the serious stuff to me."_

Leah closed her eyes. Wow. "Actually, we kind of like this spot. It's nice and quiet, middle of our response area, not too far from the Dunkies."

"_Your presence is detrimental to my mission. I'm asking you nicely to clear off this street for the rest of the night."_

"And your mission is to…?"

"_Move the bus, Leah, or I'll be forced to do it myself."_

She should have stopped right there. "Oh, really?" she heard herself ask. "You qualified to drive this thing?"

But he'd already disconnected. The white light was glowing again at his ear. He was making another call.

"Are we going to move?" Annie asked.

Leah gave the parking brake an extra tug. "Nope."

"Why am I getting a bad feeling about this?"

Leah reclined her seat, lacing her fingers behind her head just as the tones went off. They looked at each other, then at Beckman.

"Damn."

Annie answered. It was a slip-and-fall at the nearby Westerly Adult Community. It took all she had not to flip Beckman the birdie as they pulled away.

Annie frowned. "You don't think he could…"

"No. Even he can't make old ladies slip and fall on their own Jell-o. He got lucky this time, but it doesn't mean he wins." The night, unfortunately, was still young.

Unlike any human being at the Westerly Adult Community.

Even the front desk receptionist seemed to be having an episode of memory loss when they asked for the patient's location. The woman didn't even seem to remember calling an ambulance. Which prompted a highly disorganized questioning of nurses and orderlies and housekeeping personnel, all of whom recalled incidents of patients slipping and falling at various times and locations around the building, but none on that particular night.

All in all, it had been a fairly uneventful evening at the WAC.

Leah smiled, and apologized for the mix-up, and seethed with fury the entire drive back.

* * *

_[Callaghan's Pub, cellar]_

…

Connor repeated his question, letting his pistol hover over the entry wound in Ugly's thigh.

"I told you, I don't know!" Ugly's face contorted. "Alls I know is he goes there when the Mrs. is gone for her fucking spa days."

Connor dug in his pistol.

Murphy glanced up the stairs, wishing Rhonwen hadn't gone ballistic when he'd tried to shut the cellar door. There were no faces at the top of the stairs, but Murphy doubted there was an inch of the pub that the cries wouldn't reach.

"_Take it easy_," Murphy said in Irish. "_He's going to pass out again_."

"_I know what the fuck I'm doing_."

"Wednesdays!" Ugly gasped. "Sometimes—sometimes Fridays. But he always takes two with him."

"He takes his thugs along for a nooner? Now I know you're full of shit." Connor gave the pistol sharp twist.

Ugly gasped. And then passed out.

"Fuck!" Connor slapped him around a bit, but they both knew it was pointless.

Murphy took the smokes from the pocket of his brother's discarded jacket and started up the stairs. "You got first watch."

He found both Seamus and Rhonwen in the office, looking not directly at him, meaning they'd heard every last word. Murphy tapped one out, starting for the back door before catching himself. "Oh."

"It's warmer in here anyway, right?" Rhonwen found him an ashtray under a stack of mail. "You want me to take a look at that hand?" she asked. His knuckles were bloody, but hardly a war injury. At least Annie would be happy he hadn't split his head open again. Not that she'd ever have reason to know—anything.

A sigh escaped him, long and tired. "No thanks, Rhon. I was wondering though, could I borrow some change from the register?"

She and Seamus looked at each other. "Of course." She dropped the papers she was sorting and hurried into the bar area.

"I don't need a lot," Murphy told her. "A few coins should do it."

"We were just debatin' about that," Seamus said, quietly going back to AV wiring on his desk. "To be honest, I thought the penny shit was all for show. Guess she was right again."

Murphy didn't have a polite answer to that.

"She's a fan, you know," Seamus went on. "Everyone is, even my own mother." They stood in the doorway and smoked, watching Rhonwen sort through the coin trays in the cash drawer. "Last week she calls me up, 'What do you hear from those Saints?' she says. 'There's some boys with real purpose in their lives, a job that _means_ something.'" A cluster of ash from his cigarette missed the ashtray and he watched it drift towards the bar, carried in a draft. The heater was blowing full force after having been shut off all day long. "I guess the money I send home doesn't mean quite enough."

Rhonwen came back with a handful of what must have been the shiniest coins in the drawer.

"Thanks, love," Murphy said, regretting the endearment a moment too late.

"You go on, do your thing," she told Murphy, "but remember, these bodies are going to have to be…moved."

"Rhonnie," Seamus said, "I think he knows what the hell he's doin'."

Murphy winced internally. Seamus was smarter than average man, but Christ, he could be stupid sometimes.

Rhonwen's eyes flashed. Murphy spoke up before she could start in.

"We may have a solution to that, and the Caddie as well," he said. "Plan's not solid yet, but Connor's working it out."

"Good," she said, smiling at Seamus. "Finally, a man with a plan. I'll go ask him what he's got so far." She thundered down the stairs.

Seamus reached to rub his neck, winced when his broken fingers touched, and switched hands. "I know this must have been hard for her."

Murphy said nothing, but Seamus seemed to read the silence.

Seamus's hand dropped. "Look, Murph. I can see you're gunning for her, and on the one hand-I appreciate it. On the other hand—there's a whole fucking lot you don't know."

"And I don't need to. It's your thing, whatever it is—I'd just hate to see you lose it. The best ones aren't easy to keep around."

Seamus smiled without amusement. "I guess you would know something about that, wouldn't you?"

Murphy closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose. Connor and Rhonwen climbed the stairs.

"Ugly's not going anywhere," Connor said, pulling his mask from his coat pocket. "In the meantime, we've a couple of cars to move. Murph, you got those Caddie keys?"

"Aye." _Bless you, brother._ "Let's check it out."

"Wait," Rhonwen said, "they could be out there, watching the back door."

"That's why we'll go around from the front," Connor said.

"But if they're back there-"

"Rhonnie," Murphy said. "It isn't our first rodeo."

"Yeah, well. It wasn't Seamus's either." She put a hand on Murphy's arm. All three men looked at her. Seamus's brows lifted. She dropped her hand.

"Go on, boys," Seamus said flatly. He waited until they started into the bar, as if to ensure their departure. "I'll start bringing the crates up."

"No, you won't. I will," Rhonwen said.

"Are we going to have this discussion again? You can be a liberated woman tomorrow. Tonight, just let me lift the fucking fifty pound crates myself."

"You're not going down there again without me."

Connor's hand was on the front door. Murphy pulled on his mask and gestured for him to wait. If there really was anyone out there, they weren't going to have any luck slipping out unnoticed until the happy couple shut up for a few seconds.

"Well, come along then!" Seamus threw his taped-up hands in the air. "I guess the boys can just sit out back in the dark, knocking while we're both down in the hole."

"Why don't you stay and I'll just take myself down alone?" Her Irish accent was coming on thick now. "I'll be sure to shut the door nice and tight behind me. Then maybe I'll call _someone else besides my fucking partner_ with a vague, idiotic secret code that they may or may not figure out before some goodfella offs me in my own fucking death trap!"

"Jesus, woman, I didn't die! And stop waving that around like a toy. " Seamus caught her wrist and took her .45. "It's fucking over, all right?"

"Grand," Murphy said. "Now they're both armed."

"This is one battle that's going to have to play out without us," Connor said. "Come on."

They stepped outside and a wall of white filled Murphy's vision.

* * *

Leah turned the ambulance down the same street. Slowed at the same pub. Rolled past the same pretentious black sedan. Pulled past it to the curb, threw the ambulance into reverse, and-staring unblinking in the fish-eye mirror-backed until she was two feet from the BMW's fender, then cranked the wheel and felt the rear right tire bump the curb. In the fish-eye, she had a perfectly angled, albeit tiny, view of Beckman whipping out his cell phone.

Hers rang. She silenced it. Annie's rang. Annie scoffed, and silenced it.

"Try it, Beckman," Leah muttered. "Ring up Med-Com again. See what happens."

"I can't see anything," Annie said. "Tell me if he gets out of that ridiculous car."

Leah smiled, trying to cool her adrenaline. "I can't believe you thought he was a homeless guy."

"Like you can talk. You heard Murphy with a woman, and your first thought was _sister_."

Leah watched Beckman. His phone was in his hands, lighting his face from below. "She sounded like them."

"She sounded Irish?"

Leah nodded. "It's strange how Connor's accent changes. Sometimes he hardly sounds Irish at all, and then other times…"

"It gets thicker when he's around other Irish people. Or when he's drinking."

"Well, he must be drinking _with_ Irish people tonight, because he sounded like he just got off the boat."

In the mirror, the faint glow of Beckman's phone screen turned off. Now she couldn't be sure of anything he might be doing, beyond remaining in his vehicle. God help him if he tried to make another bogus 911 call.

"They've been here a long time," Annie mused, as if to herself. "It takes a little effort, but Connor can drop the Irish entirely if he wants. Murphy can do it without hardly thinking about it—he's flawless with accents, all accents. His French is _hypnotic…_There ought to be a law against it. There probably is, like for subliminal messaging."

"Bet you weren't complaining at the time." Leah continued to watch the darkened mirror, imagining she could hear blood rushing to Annie's cheeks.

"Connor's good too, but his real talent is the language itself-the grammar, the syntax. At least, that's what Murphy's told me. It's not like I can tell if the grammar's correct. I can barely pick out the Spanish from the Italian."

Leah counted on her fingers. "French, Spanish, Italian, Latin, Irish, English…"

"German, and Russian."

"How is that even possible?" Leah asked, tearing her eyes from the mirror. "What on earth are they doing at a meat packing plant?"

Annie turned her palms up. "When I met them, they were elbow-deep in engine grease, fixing motorcycles."

A very clear picture formed in Leah's mind, and her train of thought derailed.

Annie was still talking. "… know a little Spanish, so I'll catch a word here and there, but they talk too fast for me. The worst is when they combine it all, saying every other word in a different language. Once—mind you, he was too tanked to pee straight—Connor called it _synergy_, and said it was their secret weapon." A sound that was something like a snort escaped her. "Ask him about it next time you see him."

"I don't think I'll be seeing him again."

"Oh."

Leah turned back to the window, waiting for the inevitable next question. Oh no, Beckman's car was gone. Where had he gone so quickly? She checked the traffic in both directions – cars were passing fairly consistently, but the ones she could see didn't look like a BMW. Annie touched her arm and pointed. There-across the street, parked a few spots down from the pub, enjoying an easy view of the front door from his driver's seat. There was fifty feet of open curb in front of him.

Leah debated for exactly half a second. Then she checked her mirrors and pulled across both lanes, opposing traffic, to the curb on the pub side of the street, nose-to-nose with Beckman's beamer.

Annie shrunk into her seat. "Jesus, Leah."

"This'll teach him to abuse the 9-1-1 system."

They waited. Beckman didn't call. He didn't get out of his car. He sat in his car and stared at Leah. It was like waiting for a bomb to explode.

After an excruciatingly long minute, Annie shifted a little straighter in her seat. "So…" She cleared her throat. "What's the deal with you and Connor? Before I left on Saturday morning, you seemed optimistic, but tonight on the phone…you're pissed at him?"

Leah closed her eyes. "One issue at a time. Beckman's staking out somebody, alone. Why he doesn't have a partner with him is a whole issue in itself. The question right now is—what's so interesting inside that bar?"

Annie didn't press. She scanned the street slowly, in both directions. "The bar's closed down. Whatever someone's doing in there, they don't want it public."

"Or _they_ don't want to be seen."

Both sets of eyes shifted to the pub.

"A bar doesn't shut down without the owner's okay. You said you know him?"

"No, I said Connor and Murphy know him. I've only met him a few times." Annie leaned against her door, glancing cagily at Beckman. "Seamus. He's a nice enough guy, very generous. Always wears a skully cap. Tall. Cute. Kind of intimidating."

"Irish."

Annie waited a beat to reply. "So's half of Boston."

"Well, we know what Beckman's obsessed with. Or, _who_. And we know the rumors about this place."

Annie didn't comment.

Leah looked at her. "I heard what Beckman was asking you today. I know how his mind works. He thinks Murphy's connected. But you didn't give him their cell phone number."

"Neither did you."

"He didn't ask me for it."

Backed against the passenger window, Annie's face was shadowed with the street light behind her. "Let me ask you something," she said. "What would you do if Beckman was really on to something? If you knew somehow that the Saints were in there, and he was about to bust them?"

"He's a cop. If he wants to arrest someone, what can I do?"

"I'm asking what _would_ you do. If there _was_ something you could do, would you do it?"

"Let me ask _you_ something," Leah said. "If one of those Saints called for an ambulance – would you help him?

In silhouette, Annie's chin lifted ever so slightly. "I would do my job."

"Of course. But maybe you miss that first IV stick. Maybe you pick the wrong route to the hospital and get stuck in traffic."

Annie looked at her for a long moment. "And maybe you tell the investigators exactly what you want them to hear. And nothing else."

Leah felt her eyes go wide. She could take it from the police because she had no other choice. She couldn't take it from a clueless, idealistic left-coaster who hadn't even been in town long enough to pick a side.

She unclenched her teeth and kept her voice neutral. "Are you accusing me of something?"

"I hear what Beckman asks you, too, Leah. It's not harassment if the witness is actually lying. It's good police work."

"Jesus Christ, listen to you. Is it a full moon tonight? Enough with the freaky love-hate attachment to that power-tripping Adolf. Remember, I'm the one writing your eval."

Annie's jaw dropped. "Are you threatening me?"

"No, I'm flat-out telling you. You keep your conspiracy theories about _my_ business to your damn self, or your ass is gone. You hear me? Don't think for one second that I can't do it."

"Do you hear yourself? You're as bad as Beckman. You two should get together, you could rule the fucking world."

Leah's mouth opened. Nothing came out.

"Screw this," Annie said. "I'm going to Dunkie's. I've got my radio." She shoved her door open, and that was the only reason they heard it.

With a slow, loud creak, the pub's thick, hardwood door swung inward. First one, and then a second dark-clad figure stepped out onto the sidewalk. Both wore ski masks. Both froze for a split-second at the sight of the ambulance.

* * *

Annie's foot slipped off the step. She managed to catch the door handle on the way down, but it wasn't enough. Her boots hit the ground with a deafening clap.

Like gunshots.

_Bang! Bang, bang!_

Gunshots—_gunshots_!

Annie ducked down behind the door, and then still crouching, hopped back inside and yanked it shut. The movement killed her still-healing ribs and she had to keep still and take a few breaths before she could do anything else. The gunfire had stopped. Heart thundering, she stole a peek past Leah through the driver's window. The masked men were still in the doorway, alert but upright. Apparently not as freaked by the gunfire as Annie was. They'd turned to look back inside the pub. One of them had a hand on the door frame. A dark hand. A gloved hand. Not holding a gun. The shots must have come from inside.

Annie struggled to figure out what that meant when suddenly the men were on the move, coming their way, passing the ambulance, heading towards the beamer. As they approached, one of them glanced up at the ambulance window, and she caught a flash of pale skin around dark, intense eyes.

She shrunk down into the seat, wanting to scream at Beckman to go after them—but the BMW was empty. That jerk was too smart for his own good, but this time it was going to pay off. He'd managed to sneak out and was no doubt lying in wait for them. Her heart picked up speed. Would tonight finally be the night?

As the men strode alongside the BMW, Annie caught a slight movement at the edge of her vision. "There," she whispered. "He's behind that van I think. Any second now…"

There was a flash of movement beside her and suddenly the world exploded into light and sound. A siren wail split the night; lights flashed and spun across the brick and concrete landscape, jarring her focus. It felt like eons before she realized it was coming from _their ambulance_.

"LEAH!"

Both women fumbled for the switches.

"What the FUCK?" Annie demanded.

"I'm sorry!" Leah exclaimed. "It was an accident." She wasn't looking at Annie. Her eyes were tracking the figures outside.

Annie raked the darkness for signs of them. There! They had turned tail and were coming back. No, wait, there was only one. They'd split up! She looked around desperately for the other. A shadow danced along the wall of the narrow alleyway beside the pub.

"Turn around and follow the one on the street," she ordered Leah. "We can still catch him!"

Leah didn't move. "We're not cops, Annie."

"Go! He's getting away!"

Leah just looked at her, and a blow of understanding struck Annie in the chest.

The next moment her door was open, and she was tripping into the darkness of the alley on legs half-asleep from the long hours of sitting. She stumbled on something and caught herself, one hand cradling her jostled ribs, the other scraping along the rough alley wall.

He wouldn't get away, not this time. Not when Beckman was so close to catching him. She recoiled a little at rooting for Beckman, after everything he had said and done. She glanced over her shoulder and saw no ambulance. Where had Leah gone? Where had Beckman gone? She hadn't heard any more gunshots, or any voices.

She slowed her walk, taking more care with her steps, trying to listen above the pounding of her heart.

All she could hear was the crunch of grit under her own boots. The masked man had stopped running.

And gone where? It was too dark to see anything. There was literally a light at the end of her tunnel, but it was a dim one. And it was a very long tunnel. And there was no real pressing reason for a questionable man to flee _into_ the light when there was some perfectly nice darkness around in which to hide.

A chill started at the small of her back and ran all the way up to her scalp.

_This is for Rocco_, she told herself.

_Rocco would tell you to get your dumb ass back in that ambulance. _

The tidal wave of adrenaline was already beginning to recede, and reason insisted on taking inventory. What was the plan here, anyway?

Her radio was no longer on her belt. Her Maglite was under her seat in the ambulance. Her phone—

_Scratch_. Annie froze.

Grit under a boot—a boot much heavier than hers. And right behind her.

Her hand, pressed over the fabric of her jacket, closed around the shape of the cell phone in the pocket beneath. Very slowly, without moving the rest of her arm, she slid her fingers back and into the pocket. She pried the phone open with her thumb, felt for the upper left button. Pressing it once would pull up her most recent call. Pressing it again would dial it. The only problem was the beep. She hesitated.

There was no more sound from beside her, except—breathing? She clenched her eyes shut and dialed. The beep seemed as loud as the siren. Then, through the pocket, came the first ring.

That's when the hand closed over her mouth.

It was a gloved hand. It stank of smoke. She tried to struggle free, but the man's arm was like a vice. In her pocket her other hand was still gripping the phone, her thumb still pinched under the cover. The call was still ringing. She wiggled her head side to side, pried her lips open and bit into the glove, tasting bitter leather.

The owner of the hand made a sound like a growl but didn't loosen his grip. He hooked her elbow and pulled it back, pulling her phone hand out of her pocket as the call connected and Beckman's voice carried through the night air. "_What?_"

She wrenched her mouth free. "Josh!"

The phone was knocked from her hand. It snapped closed on impact, breaking the connection and clattering away in the darkness.

Damn it, she'd just bought that phone! She brought her elbow back as hard as she could, making semi-firm contact with a stomach. It brought a grunt and a slight shift-not enough to allow her to go dead-weight and slip down out of his one-armed grasp.

With impossibly quick reflexes, he hauled her up like a rag-doll, yanked her arms down at her sides, and crushed her against him. His arms were like steel, his chest a slab of rock behind her. To her injured ribs, it felt like an ice-pick stabbing her all the way through.

She went still, unable to breathe, unable to fight, unable to comprehend how incredibly, horrifically stupid she was.

Finally her lungs overruled and she gasped for air, letting go a cry of pain.

Instantly, the steel arms loosened their grip. Her feet touched the ground again. The sudden scuffle of their shifting feet almost, _almost_ covered the word that was more a breath than a whisper.

"_Sorry_."

Time seemed to stop at the sheer audacity. Then pain returned, and fear and anger converged. She shifted her arms slightly, testing the change in his hold. Her fingertips brushed the handle of the trauma shears in the cargo pocket of her pants. _Blunt-tipped. Designed not to injure_. Her fingers found the ball-point pen beside the shears.

It was not blunt-tipped.

A solid grip; a mighty fury.

A cry of pain that was not her own.

The alley burst into red and white flashing light. High beams blinded her, but Annie was suddenly free and she couldn't run to them fast enough.

...

* * *

_A/N: I love to hear what you think! Don't be shy!_


	34. Checking Up

**Author's Note:** Do I have the very best readers in all the world? Yes, yes I do. My endless thanks to each and every one of you. You deserve faster updates, and I'm sorry that doesn't always happen. Ok, ever. A big thanks to Goddess as well, as always, for a keen but always kind beta. :)

* * *

**[Chapter 34: Checking Up]**

**.**

Connor cruised past the ancient duplex, checking the time again. He had no doubt that Murphy would meet him here, though they hadn't discussed it explicitly. Doc was one of the few souls they could trust with anything, and the street he lived on was relatively quiet and nondescript, an ideal holding place for something that couldn't be easily hidden. Namely, a stolen mob-owned Cadillac Escalade. It was the first and best idea he and Murphy had agreed on, although in hindsight, they should have at least called him up and given him the broad strokes of the situation. Showing up on his deserted doorstep in the middle of the night wasn't any kind of a plan, but then, neither was asking the old man to harbor the cash and guns they'd lifted off two dead Russian mafiosos six months ago– and Doc had done it without blinking an eye.

He dialed up McGinty's, not expecting an answer—yet still swearing when he didn't get one. Doc was usually at the bar until closing on the weekend, but Connor had never really noticed how long he worked during the week. Would the bar be busy this late on a Monday night?

He turned around at the intersection and drove slowly past the house again. All the lights were off and he didn't see Doc's car parked in his carport, or anywhere else. Doc was one of the few homeowners in all of Southie who had a carport. A garage would have been better, of course, but this wasn't suburbia. The blue tarp that the old man had flopped over the mountain of boxes and other crap underneath the rickety rooftop was about the best the old man could do.

He had a brief vision of what would happen if the Escalade was spotted. What Mancini's men might do to Doc. Connor rubbed a hand over his face, then tapped out a cigarette, checking the time again. What the hell was taking Murphy so long?

Another vision came then. His brother, caught. No, Murphy _had_ to have made it down that alley.

He and Murphy had split up immediately, on instinct heading towards the vehicles for which they each had keys. Someone – he was almost positive it was only _one_ someone – had chased after him, gaining on him, though Connor had never run so fast in his life. The years of smoking had about caught up with him when a sudden cell phone ring slowed his pursuer's steps. Connor reached the LTD several seconds later, and the footsteps behind him had faded, headed in the opposite direction. Gasping for air, his heart like a jackhammer, he'd cranked the key and peeled out, allowing himself a glance backwards that stayed like a still photograph in his mind: a lone man, running in a beanie and overcoat, silhouetted by the flashing red and white lights of an ambulance, clutching a cell phone to his ear.

Who was the man? It seemed strange for Mancini to have only sent one man after his trio of Seamus-hunting goons had disappeared. Unless, he supposed, they'd split up. The others could have been out back, as Rhonwen had feared. Staking out the Cadillac in the darkness of the back alley was smart—it's what Connor himself would have done in their position. _Fuck, Murph._

He called Callaghan's. Rhonwen answered on the second ring. "You heard from Murph?" he asked without preamble.

"No. You haven't?"

"No. Did you hear anything outside, gunshots?"

"I heard a car start in the alley, the Caddie I assumed. I-I didn't check."

"Don't. Stay inside. They could still be out there." His voice sounded high in his own head, strained. He took a breath.

"It had to be the Caddie," she said. "and Murph had the only key, right?"

"Unless someone stopped by with another. What else do you know, does Seamus have those fucking cameras working yet?"

"He just got them up. But it's quiet now. Someone came knocking not long after the car left. He said he was police, Connor."

"Police? What the fuck?"

"I don't know if he heard the shots or what, but he got here pretty damn fast. Impossibly fast. That siren went off before Ugly even hit the floor."

"Ugly hit the—God _damn_ it, Rhonnie!"

"Seamus did it!" she squeaked. "But…really, can you blame him? I mean, we weren't just going to let him go."

"Of course we weren't, we were _questioning_ him first! Jesus fucking Christ."

Seamus's voice carried thinly through her silence, asking her something. Her hand must have covered the mouthpiece; it was several muffled seconds before he heard her resigned sigh.

"I'm sorry for the way things turned out, Connor. Especially after everything you've done for us. Were you able to get anything useful out of him?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Some shite about Mancini's mistress in Bay Village. If we had a name or an address…" He didn't bother to finish the thought. Without a name or an address they had nothing. "Listen, will you call me if you hear from Murph?"

"Of course, you too. I mean, please call me when you see him. I-I'm not sure, but I think it's possible he's hurt."

"_What-_"

"I don't know for sure. But before I heard the engine, I heard something else. Not a scream exactly-"

"_Not_ a scream?"

"Well, a _cry_, I guess. A woman's cry. And then a yell that sounded like Murphy. I was at the back door, listening, I was going to go out, but Seamus stopped me."

"Good." He felt seasick. "Good. No reason to risk it."

"I'm sure he's fine, Con," she said without conviction. "I think the siren probably scared them all off. Murphy's probably just going round-about, making sure he doesn't have a tail."

It was possible. If he did have a tail, he might even be waiting it out, or driving to God-knows-where in order to lose it. "Aye, you're probably right."

"Of course I am." God bless her, she was almost convincing. "And hey, after he gets there, and you deal with the Caddie—what's the plan? For getting rid of these, uh-"

"Bodies? For now, just keep that cellar door closed."

"All right. I'll be in touch. And Connor?"

"Aye."

"He'll be fine. He knows you're counting on him. Murphy doesn't know how to fail."

For some reason, that was the worst thing she could have said. Connor threw open the door, craving the fresh air, the cold. It blew over him, cooling the sweat.

_The siren probably scared them all off._

He hated to delude himself – but it was a possibility. It had certainly scared the shit out of Murphy and him. It had been Leah sitting in that driver's seat. Was that why had she done it? To protect? To warn? What in the hell had she been doing there in the first place? It seemed wildly far-fetched that she'd gotten some emergency call, coincidentally right outside their shit storm in the pub.

He rubbed his temples, staving off an impending headache. The fingers pinching his smoke began to shake. He checked the time again; it had been almost half an hour. Damn it, they really needed to get a second cell phone.

He called McGinty's again, again with no answer.

Fuck it. He couldn't just sit here, doing nothing. They were going to need a place to stash the Escalade, and with or without permission, it was going to be in Doc's carport. For that to happen, Doc's tarp-covered pile of junk had to move. He parked the LTD, ground out his cigarette, and got to work.

* * *

_*Half an hour earlier*_

Leah stood between the high beams, holding her Maglite overhand, like a cop. "You all right?"

Annie went straight for the passenger door. Gritting her teeth, she hauled herself in with one arm, hugging her midsection with the other.

Leah stared down the alley a moment longer. The man was gone.

Beckman's car was gone, too. Leah wasted no time waiting around to see if he'd come back. She didn't speak until they were on East Broadway.

"Where are you hurt?"

Annie's ribs throbbed. "I'm not."

"You're bleeding. "

Annie looked down.

The pen.

She was still holding it, gripping it with both hands. The tip was smudged with drying blood. There was a thin red streak of it across her palm.

"It's not mine."

* * *

_A woman's cry_, Connor mused, as he set a rusty toolbox and some boxes alongside the wall of Doc's building. He didn't want to shove it all to the back of the carport, because once the Escalade was pulled in, he'd move some of the boxes back in front to hide the view from the street.

He dropped two paper bags full of magazines atop the boxes and rolled Rhonwen's words around again. She must have heard wrong. It didn't make any sense for a woman to be in that alley. Mancini would never have sent a woman there. The only woman around was Leah, but she had to have stayed in the driver's seat, because the ambulance had moved (he remembered now). It had been at the curb, opposing traffic when he first saw it, and in his final, snapshot view, it had been sideways, facing the pub, or possibly into the alley.

That's it. He was going back. Murphy would know it, too, and so he would have found a phone by now and called, if he could have. Something was wrong. He threw the last of the junk onto the pile: a leaf blower and a bag of golf clubs. The golf clubs toppled over with a crash. Connor turned to kick them back and was blinded by a flashlight beam.

"Get off my p-property, you th-thieving b-bastards, or I'll blow your f-f—fuck! Ass!"

His hands flew up. "It's me, Doc! It's Connor, don't fucking shoot." He shielded his eyes and Doc lowered the light.

"C-Connor? W-what are you-"

"It's a long story. Shit, I didn't think you were home, or else I would've knocked. I'm sorry about your stuff here, I was just moving it aside. We need to borrow the carport for a day or so, if it's all right."

Doc fumbled with the light and the revolver in his other hand, eventually getting the gun into his bathrobe pocket. "Of course, anything you need, anything for you boys." He bounced the light around the empty carport, then out to the LTD on the street. "W-where's your no-good brother?"

"He's on his way." Connor checked the time again, feeling something squeeze inside him. "Any minute now."

Doc's light shined in his eyes again, and the old man stepped closer.

"Connor." It was Doc's _don't bullshit me_ voice.

Connor reached blindly for the flashlight, tilting it away, and saw Doc's wrinkled eyes peering from behind his thick glasses. "W-what's happened, boy?"

A car approached, slowing. Was it-? Connor stumbled on a golf club and gestured for Murphy to pull up into the carport.

Connor met him as he opened the driver door. "The fuck, Murph?" he asked, slapping his brother upside the head. "It's been an _hour_ for Christ's sake. You can't fucking call?"

Murphy slung one leg out of the car, then pivoted, dragging the other across the seat, then lifting it at the knee and lowering it with a groan.

"Fuck. Are you shot?" His pants were torn on his upper right thigh, a dark, blood-stained bandage of some sort visible through the hole. The surrounding fabric, already black, was slicked wet with blood. He'd been driving with the floor mat hauled up onto the seat—keeping his blood and therefore DNA off the seat-and it was stained as well.

By then, Doc had shuffled over. "M-Murphy, all you all right, son? What the hell have you boys been—Fuck! Ass!—d-doing?"

"Oh, hey, Doc. I'm not shot." He looked at Connor, his eyes dark. "Annie stabbed me."

Doc lived on the right-hand side of a duplex surrounded by triple-deckers in one of the older neighborhoods that had residential and commercial properties mixed with no apparent rhyme or reason.

Doc climbed the few front steps and held the door, moving surprisingly quickly for an old man. Murphy refused Connor's help, leaning heavily on the railing, bending only his left leg on each stair, keeping his right leg straight and his hand pressed low over his hip. He was sweating by the time he made it through the door. Connor bit his tongue and followed Doc into his small mint-green bathroom and listened to Murphy explain Annie's latest sin against him.

Doc disappeared into a closet in the next room, barking at Murphy to drop his pants. He came back with a small, army-green bag and a folding chair and motioned for Murphy to lift up the blood-soaked leg of his boxers.

Connor watched and waited, and finally couldn't hold it in any more. "I don't understand how you had _her_ from behind, and yet she stabs _you. _Isn't she hurt from your little joyride the other night?"

"Bruised rib. It's not even cracked."

"You know that's the same thing. How's she still working? Doesn't she have to lift patients and shit?"

"I don't know, Con. She's a strong girl."

"She's not that strong. This is fucked. Does she know it was you?"

"Of course not. Ow. Damn, Doc."

"Quit c-crying, b-baby."

"Where's the bedside manner? My leg hair's still attached, you know. Was."

"You want a b-bullet to bite? M-maybe some m-morphine?"

Connor handed a long strip of tape to Doc. "Take off some more, Doc. See if he calls next time."

"I told you, Con, I was shuttin' down the GPS! Did you want to let those fuckers track it back here?"

Doc frowned and cut the tape.

"Can't have been that hard," Connor said.

"They got that OnStar shit buried under the spare, under the still plate, _under_ the fucking trunk liner. You ever tear apart an entire trunk in the dark, with a hole in your leg, while tryin' not to bleed all over the damn place?"

"Aye, you're a bloody, bleedin' hero. Did you get it shut off at least?"

Murphy stood, pulled his pants back up, carefully over Doc's bandage. "Turns out we're not the only ones who don't want to be tracked. It was already fuckin' unplugged."

* * *

The next morning, though he wouldn't have thought it possible, Murphy felt even worse than the night before. He poured himself a cup of coffee, which Connor had brewed with the last crumbs from the can, mixed with the used, damp grounds that had slept all night in the pot.

Murphy sniffed it, then reluctantly tried a sip. Damn, it was bad.

Connor was agitated, intent on reviewing everything they'd learned from Ugly, and from Seamus and Rhonwen. Mancini's mistress in Bay Village could be the key, they agreed. They decided to call Greenly and see if he could piece anything together.

"Absolutely," Greenly said. "I'll start right this minute. Dolly may know something. Smecker's in a meeting but he'll be out soon, if you want to talk to him."

Murphy closed his eyes, remembering their confrontation in the Bark Park. "If it's all the same to you, Greenly, we'll fill him in once we have more to work with."

"All right. I hear you. I'm just sayin', I'd feel better about it."

"Don't worry. Just call us back when you've got something. Thanks again."

Murphy hung up. "I feel like I just asked a kid to lie to his parents."

"Don't," Connor said, shrugging on his jacket. "Without Vigoda, we have to go through Mancini, and Smecker's holding out for running him through the system. He's forgotten that we started all this because the system is broken."

"I know. After what they did to Seamus…there's only one way this needs to end."

Connor nodded, almost to himself. "We just have to find a way to get to Mancini. We'll keep him alive until he gives up the Associate, then we take them _all_ down. And it'll finally be over." Connor gathered his sunglasses and keys and wallet. "But first, we need to know what we're up against. I'm prayin' Leah's in the mood to talk this morning."

"Are you sure you want to go this early?"

"Her shift ends at eight. Wouldn't want to wait too long and catch her at home asleep or in the shower or something."

"Aye. That'd be terrible." Murphy couldn't suppress the smile that quirked the corner of his mouth. "Good luck, brother. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Connor grinned. "Impossible. Now, your job is to answer that phone and get the deal from Greenly, that's it. Don't run around bustin' stitches. You take it easy, I mean it."

It was the coffee that decided it. Murphy might have been able to handle Connor's orders otherwise, and it wasn't as if his standards were particularly high—but even he had limits.

So he took it easy walking to Starbuck's. But the bus stop was only half as far as the coffee shop, and if he rode for four stops, he could get off practically next door to a Dunkie's. So technically, riding to get a coffee by the tat shop was even more responsible than walking to get one by the apartment.

There wasn't an open seat in the whole place. Murphy got his coffee to go, and then found himself ordering another with no sugar and extra cream. Guess he knew where his next stop was going to be.

Walking was a little slower now. Trepidation aside, his leg was beginning to ache, and the new bandage he'd put on after his shower was pulling with each step. His cup was half empty by the time he saw that the lights were already on inside the shop, and the door was propped open. Annie's hatchback was parked out front, the back open. She appeared from behind it, carrying plastic bags of groceries that she set gingerly on the sidewalk. She saw him as she was standing up, and nearly lost her balance.

"'Mornin'," he said. "They gave me an extra coffee by accident. Thought you might want it."

"I hate when they do that." She tasted it and smiled warily. "Would you mind closing that for me?" He did, and picked up her groceries as well, being careful not to favor his injured leg. Lord, they were a pathetic pair.

"Jake won't be in for a few hours," she said, closing the door behind him, after shooting a quick glance up and down the street.

"I'm not here to see Jake. I heard you didn't want to talk to me."

"So naturally, you decided to stop by."

"Leah called Connor last night. You two are both wondering about Vigoda. I'm here to tell you my hands are clean."

This time her smile was resigned. "Okay. Thanks for letting me know." She drank her coffee, watching the street again.

"You don't have to believe me-"

"No, I don't." Her gaze sharpened outside, and she ducked her head. "Crap."

"What?"

"It's Beckman. He wants to talk to me." She looked from Murphy to the door, then hurriedly ushered him towards the hallway.

"What are you doing? I'll get rid of him for you."

"_No_. We don't want him to know you're here."

"We?"

She let out a groan. "Just go back in the office, okay? I promise it won't be long."

"I don't think so, Ann." Murphy stopped, his arm tensing as she tried to tug him onward.

"He's coming right now! Don't be stupid, Murphy. _Go_. He knows you were after Bobby Vigoda."

Murphy stopped resisting her pull. "How-"

"We can talk about it later," she said, shooing him into the office, "just stay in here until he leaves."

Not knowing what unspoken confession he was making by complying, he slipped behind the office door and peered through the crack as her rubber boot soles squeaked hurriedly back to the lobby.

Beckman breezed in without knocking. Murphy made a mental note to talk to her about locking the door before and after hours.

"I called you," Beckman said to her, from out of Murphy's line of sight. "I came to see you at the station. Imagine my surprise-"

"I know, I'm sorry. I asked Ortie to come in early for his shift. And I lost my phone… again."

Murphy heard the soft swish of curtain fabric. "Are we alone?" Beckman asked. A pause as Annie confirmed. "What the hell did you think you were doing running down that alley?" he asked suddenly. "Catching these men is _my_ job."

"Yeah, well. Somebody's got to do it."

Murphy smiled.

"Don't get cute with me," Beckman snapped. "You're the reason I was there in the first place. All that preparation about to pay off, and then you blow it up like a surprise party. Is this a joke to you? People have been fired for less."

Annie's voice stayed calm and reasonable. "Leah says the siren was an accident. I am sorry you didn't catch them, but I was trying to help you."

"You called me, screaming. I thought you were-" He sucked in a breath. "I was halfway around the block. By the time I got back, you were gone, and you weren't answering your phone. What was I supposed to think?"

Her voice dropped lower, and Murphy strained, but couldn't hear her answer.

He couldn't see either of them through the crack of the door. He shifted, his shoulder brushing the door. Beckman stepped into view, shooting a narrow-eyed look down the hall.

"Yes, I could have come by the station," he said, turning back to her. "But I was monitoring Med-Com. If there'd been any major problem, I would have heard Leah take your unit out of service."

"Your concern is flattering."

"My concern is the integrity of this investigation. You came to me, claiming to want to help, seeming to have these underground, fringe-of-society contacts that could be a real, valuable source in identifying and locating the Saints. Clearly, you hadn't thought through what tapping that source would mean."

A sick discomfort spread through Murphy, while a cold voice whispered that this explained everything. Now the whole last week made sense.

"You know I hate them," Annie said. "I want them stopped more than anyone."

"Then stop riding the goddamn fence! Stop feeding me these half-truths and vague leads, and for Christ's sake, stop protecting your ex-boyfriend and his criminal friends! If he's involved, he's going down. You need to accept that. And if you choose to aid him in any way, Annie—you'll be an accomplice."

There was a long pause before Annie spoke. "You don't even know for sure that he's doing anything wrong."

"I don't yet have _proof_. It's a matter of time. The lead you gave me, the one that brought me to stake out Callaghan's last night _was_ a good lead. Then you blasted your siren and fucked it all up."

"That was an _accident_."

"You must really think I'm an idiot."

There was a shuffling, and the sound of a chair being pushed back. "Let's go outside, I need to get some stuff out of my car."

The door chimed as it opened, then shut.

He waited for them to come back inside. What was she telling him? Maybe it was self-centered, but Murphy was certain she didn't want him to overhear what she had to say. Had she recognized him last night, after all? Trusting her was impossible, though he kept trying it, over and over again.

Why would she bother hiding him if she was just going to give him up?

He pulled out his phone and called Seamus. As it rang, he wondered if would be better to call Rhonwen. No, it wasn't smart to twist that thorn in Seamus's side, real or imagined.

Seamus answered, _"How's your leg? I heard you got hit by a girl."_

"Fuck you. How's your jaw? I _saw_ you get hit by a girl."

"_We bring out the worst in our women, don't we?"_

"Ex-"

"_Or is it just that we're drawn by nature to the violent ones?"_

"I don't like to think about it. Listen, have you taken out the trash yet?"

"_Gettin' ready to. Trying to make sure we don't have eyes on us. Rhonnie's convinced we're clear, but…"_

"Do it now. That cop who was sniffin' around last night—I'm looking at him right now. He's here at Jake's, talking to Annie."

"_Shit. That doesn't sound like good news for you."_

"Well, he doesn't know I'm here."

"_I see." _

"I figure you've got ten, maybe fifteen minutes. I won't be able to stall him. Can you handle it with just Rhonnie?"

"_O' course. They're only going from the back door to my truck."_

"Bodies are a bit different than kegs, Seamus."

"_That's why we have packing crates and a dolly."_

"Are you serious? Those fuckers won't fit in packing crates!"

"_And a side of beef don't fit on a barbeque. You talk a lot about work when you're drinking, I don't think you know that."_

Murphy saw mental flashes of exactly what methods Seamus would need to accomplish what he was implying. It wouldn't be terribly difficult, assuming one had the stomach for it. The biggest problem, as per usual, would be the clean-up. A barrage of CSI-related warnings went off in his brain—Smecker's residual nagging influence.

"_I'll take care of everything,"_ Seamus assured him. _"Thanks for the heads-up."_

Murphy peered through the crack of the door-they still hadn't come back in. Crouching low, with a hand braced over the bandage under his jeans, he darted to the other side of the open door and peeked around the corner. The two of them were outside the plate glass window. Beyond the One-Eye'd-Jake's logo, he could see Annie's shoulders were tensed, her hands shoved in her pants pockets. Beckman leaned forward as he spoke, making small, irritated gestures with his hands.

She took a step back and Beckman glanced around, into the shop, just as Murphy ducked back behind the wall. He'd been halfway through the doorway and hadn't noticed.

This was bullshit. Beckman was spun up that he didn't get to arrest anyone last night and instead of getting langered and invading a confessional like a _real_ detective, the fucker was here, thirty feet from the man he hunted, ranting at his most foolishly loyal supporter.

If he could get closer, he might be able to overhear the details, but the lobby was a fishbowl. The second floor storage room, however, had four or five windows directly above the street below….

He hadn't been up there in years. Hopefully, Jake had. There used to be white butcher paper taped over the windows, to mask the stacks of dusty boxes pushed up against the glass. He tried to recall whether the view from the street was the same this week as before, but couldn't picture it. Well, all he needed was one opened window. He could shove boxes aside himself for that.

It was a skinny door adjacent to the bathroom marked with a tribal-font _Employees Only_ sticker. About six steps away, all of which would be visible to Beckman if he happened to be watching. He peeked around the corner again. Annie was opening the trunk of her car. Beckman turned slightly, following her. Now or never.

A quick prayer, and a glance out the glass, and he was through the narrow door and hurriedly limping up even narrower wooden stairs. Reaching the top, he turned into the room, and tripped on an over-stuffed suitcase.

Oh.

Five glowing white paper rectangles filtered the morning sun, setting alight floating motes of dust in the air. The old office futon sat in a diffused sunny spot light, the nest of blankets atop it suggesting it had been occupied recently. A lamp and a few books and a drawing pad with a pencil tucked inside sat on a low box next to the futon, suggesting the likely occupant. On the wall, a makeshift clothesline had been stretched between two sizable nails. Two black bras were draped over the string. Mystery solved.

A trunk slammed and jolted him out of his stupor. Leaping awkwardly to the nearest window and slipping a finger under the yellowing paper, he peered down at the sidewalk below. Beckman held a white plastic laundry hamper filled with folded clothes and other items: a purse, a pair of boots, a pillow. Annie was trying to take it from him, but Beckman was brushing her off. Murphy tried to open the window, but it stuck fast. It looked like the lock and frame had been painted shut. He could force it, but it wouldn't be quiet, and it wasn't worth the risk of alerting Beckman.

He had a better view of Beckman's face than of Annie's, but it was difficult to read his lips from the overhead angle. Beckman shifted the laundry basket to hold it with one hand. Whatever she was telling him wasn't flying. She kept shaking her head, shrugging. A swelling of pride and sympathy and possessiveness filled Murphy. He almost wanted Beckman to look up and see him.

The detective lowered his arm. He was listening now, nodding slightly. Annie seemed to be explaining something, step by step. Her hand lifted, covering her mouth. Her other hand fisted, she swung an elbow back, and then Murphy understood. He couldn't look away, the sick premonition gluing his gaze to the scene like a horror movie, when you know the awful scene is coming and cannot _not_ watch. She bent forward, mimed slipping something from the cargo pocket of her pants, and brought her fist back, low and quick, behind her. Murphy's thigh stung.

Beckman looked dumb with surprise. Then he started talking quickly, moving closer to see her pants pocket. She answered with palms open and raised, head shaking.

Beckman's eyes closed for a fraction of a second and then he started shouting, his pretty-boy face morphing through various shades of red.

Murphy caught the words _evidence, blood, DNA_. And _careless, ruin, lost_. The detective whipped out his phone, dropping the basket where he stood, knocking some of the items onto the pavement. Annie's gaze turned ever so slightly to the shop, and lingered. Murphy wanted to rip the paper from the window. She bent down and began to search through the laundry basket. Beckman was still on his phone.

Murphy took out his own phone and redialed. No answer. Seamus must have been hard at work already. He texted an all-caps warning to wrap things up (and be on the lookout for a pen), then turned back to the window.

The sidewalk was empty. The sky was still bright, but beyond the rooftops gray clouds moved on the horizon, blown in by a wind that swayed the sidewalk-trees and ruffled the faded storefront awnings.

The metal twist of a doorknob, then footfalls on the wooden stairs. He made a point to turn slowly. Not to appear as though he'd been caught.

"You're safe. He left." Her voice was guarded. She was hovering at the top step, carrying the pillow he'd seen in the laundry basket. He got the feeling she was retrieving him, waiting for him to follow her back downstairs.

"You took quite a beating. I owe you."

"Yeah, you do."

There was an expectant moment, when he should have taken that step, crossed the floor, let her re-conceal what had been exposed. Was that what he would owe, to pretend he'd never seen this room—this state that she was in? He couldn't do it. He took a moment to re-secure the paper taped to the window.

"I guess you heard some of that."

"I've got about a thousand questions, Ann." He looked pointedly at the bed.

She crossed to him and dropped the pillow on the futon. "Where I sleep is none of your business."

A familiar burn began to simmer. "Fine. First you hide me. Then Captain America calls me your 'fringe-of-society _source'_. What the fuck is that?"

Her face flushed. "This is your own fault, Murphy. If you weren't always lying to me-"

"What have you told him?"

She stepped backward, into a box. He hadn't meant to raise his voice. He put his hands in his pockets and walked the length of the small open floor area, accidentally ending up in front of the bras on the clothesline, realizing it too late, and quickly turning his back on them.

"You are some piece of work," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "I just _saved_ your ass. The only reason you're here is because-"

"Because you're a good friend, you're right. I'm sorry." She didn't return his smile. He debated for a moment. He wanted—he _needed_ to know what was going on. But the room was so small and private. Claustrophobic. "You know, it's going to rain soon, and I didn't bring the car. We can talk some other time."

"We can talk now. Because I'm _not_ a good friend."

He slowed on his way to the stairs, knowing that he wouldn't like whatever was coming next.

"I was covering my own ass," she said. "If he knew you were here with me, I'd have a lot more to answer for, and I didn't want to deal with that this morning." He waited. "A lot of stuff's gone down the last few days, Murphy. As you know." She moved past him, starting down the stairs, leaving him to follow.

Her boots seemed to float over the wooden planks. His thunked unevenly. "What, did you tell him it's all my doing?"

"You were happy to run up here and hide from a cop. I think that says a lot, don't you?"

"You said he wanted to question me."

"No, I said he knew you were after Bobby Vigoda."

The dark cloud of feeling that had been floating over him condensed. He caught her at the bottom of the stairs, not realizing how tight of an area it was until they were stuck there, filling the space together. "A coincidence, though I can't say I'm surprised how the lad ended up. I am surprised Beckman's crystal ball mentioned my name."

His eyes traced the uneven part of her dark hair, ignoring the scent of peaches while she studiously contemplated the doorknob. "I had already asked him to run the license plate number, which I only did to find out the truth because _you_ wouldn't tell me anything-"

"I didn't want you in the middle. I was protecting you."

"You were protecting _yourself_. Next time, try telling someone the truth and they won't have to go behind your back to find it! I had to tell him, I didn't have a choice. Beckman doesn't play by the usual rules, Murphy. He gets what he wants by any means possible."

She turned the knob, and slipped out into the shop. The laundry basket full of her stuff was on the floor in the hall. She pushed Jake's curtain back, revealing two more open-topped boxes. "Could you please carry these upstairs for me?" Her tone was irritable, as if the fact that she had to ask for help was his fault. Which of course, it was.

He picked up both boxes. "It seems to me that Beckman's the only one getting what he wants. Why didn't he do this for you? How did you get them in here, anyway?"

"I pushed them across the floor." She held the staircase door open for him. "With Beckman, it's complicated. There are some things he doesn't need to know."

Her free hand fluttered absently over her middle, and a wave of guilt carried him up the stairs, the pain he probably deserved worsening with every step. He set the boxes down neatly, near the futon.

She came up after him, stomping louder now. Sore ribs obviously hadn't affected everything.

"Beckman mentioned a siren," he said. "What was that about?"

"We happened to be posting at the same place he was last night. Leah set off the lights and sirens at a very inopportune moment, and the people he was after escaped."

"So you don't really think it was an accident."

"She had to hit three switches in two different locations and turn a dial. It's impossible to do by accident."

So Connor was right about the warning. And if Leah had assumed that they were the Saints, that meant Annie and Beckman had assumed also. He should have left right then. He should have stopped this wild tangent before it could spiral out of his control. "Why would she do that?" he asked.

"Because she's a fan girl. She only sees the big take-downs: Yakavatta, and Vincenzo Lapazzi, and Eugene Scuderi, and Leo Buffone. But when it comes to that old lady Martha, and Yamir the janitor, and Bobby Vigoda, and Frankie and Rocco – she's got a blind spot a mile wide."

A prickle of indignation made his neck tense. He tried to ignore it, but she was just so _convinced_.

"You think the Saints killed all of those people," he said.

"It's obvious. And it's easy for her to support them, because she's never known any of their victims." She tilted her head, assessing. "If you know something I don't, feel free to share. Beckman's gone."

Murphy smiled coldly. "Oh no, he's not."

A wrinkle of hurt creased her brow. "You can tell me anything, Murphy. As long as it's the truth."

He suppressed a mean laugh, wandering over to the clothesline that somehow no longer seemed forbidding. "Sure I can. Will you let me check you for a wire?" He walked along the wall, sliding his finger along the string, skipping lightly over the black lace as she watched.

"Do I have to let you take me to dinner first?" she asked.

He tapped a finger on the clothesline, bouncing the bras. "Why, was that Beckman's method?"

She snatched the bras from the string and tossed them into a box. "You know what? I'm done talking about this. You've been hiding something from the moment I saw you this week, and the closer I get to figuring it out, the uglier it looks. I think I'd rather just have Jake break the news to me once you're behind bars."

"Jesus, you're the one who just hid me from a cop!" The clothesline came loose on one side and fell, dangling from the remaining nail. "I never know if you're going to cover for me or throw me under the bus! I don't know what to make of you anymore, Ann. If you're going to pit me against a man, you have to choose a side."

"My side is against the Saints. So is Beckman's. What's _yours_?"

"Everything is guilty until proven innocent with you." He tried to re-tie the string, but the knot kept slipping and finally he tore it down completely. "Listen, I gotta go soon. Those clouds aren't going to hold much longer."

"That's not an answer."

"I'm against evil, in all its forms. Yeah, go ahead and laugh. _That's_ the honest truth."

"So you are a supporter." She took the string from him, her touch sliding hotly over his palm. "How can you do it?" She turned away, looking like she'd tasted something bad. "How can _you_ think that way?"

He closed his eyes, at a loss, for the hundredth time, on how to make her understand. "It's not about what I think. It's about the evidence. You keep lumping all these homicides together, and it's confusing the hell out of the issue. You can't just take Beckman's word on everything. You're smarter than that."

"But there _is_ evidence. Just because you don't see it splashed on the news doesn't mean it doesn't exist."

There was more she wasn't saying. He needed to be very careful here. "What are you talking about?"

"The usual, Murphy. M.O., ballistics, profiles of the victims-"

"There's not a scrap of consistency in your victim profiles."

"Rocco and Vigoda," she said quietly. "It doesn't get more consistent than that."

"That's a hell of a thing to say."

"You think I don't know what it sounds like?" The light caught a glistening in her eyes. Murphy rubbed an eyebrow, not wanting to see it. "Wishing things were different doesn't make them that way, Murphy."

Connor's words to Vigoda were echoing in his mind: _Others have gotten out_. _We can make sure you get protection. _How many times had they said the very same thing to Roc? How many times had they promised each other, when Roc was out of earshot? She watched him solemnly. She remembered those promises, too. Murphy ran a hand through his hair.

He took a breath. "Assume the Saints _didn't_ kill Roc—just go with it, okay—then how's your pattern hold up?"

He could tell she wanted to argue. "_If_ that were the case," she said, "then the _lack_ of consistency is the pattern. They kill randomly."

"That's not a pattern! That's cops being lazy, which is the very reason murders go unsolved and criminals walk around free every single goddamn day."

"_Pennies, _then_._ On Vigoda, on Frankie-"

"On Frankie, there was nothing. Chaffey told us. Hell, you were the one who found him." Jake had sent her to check on the absentee tat artist, and she'd found him dead in his bedroom.

"Yes, I was." She still had the string clutched in her fist. She began to pull it out slowly from between her fingers, like an endless length of street magician scarves. "There's an advantage to being first on a scene."

A chill crawled up his neck as he watched the string keep coming and coming. "Are you saying you found pennies on Frankie?" The end of the string popped free. Her chin rose, challenging him.

He searched her face. "And you _took_ them?"

"I kept those media sluts from getting their precious press."

He closed his eyes and breathed slowly, convincing himself it was best not to break anything. He had_ known_ Frankie's death was connected! "You are unbelievable."

A copycat had tried to frame them, and she'd buried it in her quest to bury the Saints. He'd bet all his pathetic scraps of money it was the Associate. But how? And _when_? He couldn't begin to guess the why. Smecker was going to shit a brick. Right after he finished apologizing to Murphy. He felt the weight of the phone in his pocket. They'd wasted so much time already, when the clues had been right there—before Annie had snatched them away.

"You need to tell the police, Annie—and I don't mean Beckman. Do you know Paul Smecker?"

"The FBI agent who still hasn't found the Saints. We've met. I don't think he likes me."

"He can be a bit eccentric, but he's sharp. Sharper than your pretty boy, and a hell of a lot more trustworthy."

"Beckman doesn't trust him."

Murphy thought of their meeting at the Bark Park and wondered how much Beckman suspected. And if it was still worth the risk, for any of them. "Well, talk to Greenly then, or Dolly or Duffy—_yes_, I know them all from St. Patty's, don't look at me like that. I don't trust Beckman. I don't like the way he talks to you."

She walked to the window, peeling back the same tape he'd loosened earlier. "He had a right to be upset with me today. I was trying to help last night, and I made a mistake. A big one."

A thin vibration of warning ran through him. He could still hear her, screaming Josh's name as Murphy had knocked her phone to the ground. "What did you do, Annie?"

"I…took matters into my own hands. Nothing you haven't done yourself." He scoffed,

but she didn't turn around. "It's starting to drizzle," she said. Prying back the paper, she peered up at the darkening sky. "You should go."

He should. He started to, and then she turned.

"Wait. Why didn't you ask about Vigoda?" With a twirl she stepped around him, blocking his path to the exit. "There were no pennies found on him, either. Officially."

"You _didn't_." But it was all over her face. "Jesus Christ, Annie. In public! If you would've been caught-"

She pointed a finger at him. "_I_ think you didn't ask, because you already knew. You _assumed_ detectives found the pennies, because you expected them to be there. You _knew_ the Saints killed Vigoda." She was so spun up about this conclusion that she seemed to forget how horrible it made him sound. Which of course wasn't nearly as horrible as he actually was.

"What I know is that you are in way over your head."

"Me? What about you!"

"This isn't some game you can just play for fun. Beckman's got his own agenda. No one's looking out for you."

"I'm a grown woman, Murphy."

"Then act like it! Look out for yourself! These are dangerous people, Annie. The cops _and_ the…"

She waited, eyebrows raised. "The what?" she prompted. "The who?"

"The other side of the law. The ones you think you're looking for."

"Yes, I know they're dangerous, Murphy. They killed Rocco. That's kind of the WHOLE POINT."

"The _Saints didn't kill Rocco_!"

They stared at each other. "What?"

He pushed past her, thundering down the stairs before he could say anything else.

She flew after him, bursting outside into the wind and the rain already starting to fall. "You say it like you know." She grasped his arm. "You say it like you _know,_ Murphy."

He turned abruptly, despite the screaming warning in his head, as the clouds opened up. In seconds it was a downpour. They were face to face, both blinking against the battery of drops.

"Annie, you are fucking around in shit you don't understand. Just-_back off_!"

He shook her off and left her there, turning into the wind.

"I'm not letting this go!" she yelled. "I'm talking to Beckman!"

"Do it, then!" He plowed on through the rain, head down, wet and freezing and craving a cigarette. Water ran down his back in an icy stream, soaking everything from his collar to his waistband. His jeans and jacket grew heavy. He began to shiver and couldn't seem to stop. He splashed through puddles for four blocks without looking up, until a car cut him off in a crosswalk. It was Annie.

Her window was down. "I'm sorry," she shouted over the rain. "Get in, I'll give you a ride."

Horns blared at her. Other pedestrians with umbrellas walked around her front fender, glaring.

"Let's just talk about this," she pleaded.

"I'm done talking," he said, and moved to go with the others.

She let off the brake, bumping his leg, making him catch himself on her hood. "Jesus Christ!"

"Don't be a stubborn ass! I'm _sorry_, okay? Just let me drive you home. You don't have to talk at all."

His stubborn ass was soaked and frozen. The idea of saturating her car upholstery held a strong appeal. He got in.

* * *

**A/N**: Still with me out there? Let me know! :)


	35. Fail

**Author's Note: **_I'm back! And I missed you all terribly. Let's find out how this story ends, yes? (Lots more MacManus goodness before we get there.)_

* * *

**[Chapter 35: Fail]**

Leah didn't answer his knock at her apartment, so Connor tried her at the station next, again without success. He'd told her last night to answer her phone when he called, and then he'd brilliantly left the cell phone at home with Murphy. With a sigh, he peered up at the darkening sky. It was going to start coming down soon. If he was going to sit like a stalker outside her place until she showed, he wasn't going to do it on an empty stomach.

He drove over to the Yolk, wary of the patrol cars parked outside. Probably just the usuals, but was it worth the risk? Had any hint of their mess at Callaghan's hit the media? A kid with a sideways hat and a familiar Celtics backpack stalked along the sidewalk towards him.

Connor leaned to roll the passenger window down. "Hey, kid. I need a newspaper."

"Man, I quit that biz. Got me a real profit margin."

Connor put the car in park. "What are you sellin' now?" _Lord, don't let it be drugs._ The kid's backpack looked ready to burst.

Omar looked left, then right, inching closer to the car. "Oh, you know. A little of this, a little of that. Listen, are you going down past Broadway?"

"Wasn't planning on it. Shouldn't you be in school?"

Omar made a face. "Who are you, the school police?"

"No, they're all inside, eatin' their donuts. You know, if you're going to cut class, it's best not to go prancin' in front of the cops. Just sayin'."

"Yeah, yeah," Omar mumbled, turning away from the glass. "Look, I missed the bus and my mom can't leave work or she'll get fired."

"Well, it's your lucky day. Let me get a cup, then I'll give you a ride."

"I don't know. I'm not even supposed to talk to you anymore."

"How's that? I heard you pled the fifth with my lighter. Made me proud."

"I did. But she knew anyway." Connor's face must have shown his confusion. "No, not my mom—_her_." Omar gestured to the diner window behind them.

Connor shifted his focus through the glass, and there was Leah, in a striking blue rain jacket, deep in conversation with a fifty-something man with an impressive mustache. Their plates were stacked, piled with crumpled napkins and silverware. She and her date had been there a while.

Omar looked from the window back to Connor. "She was nice to me, you know, even though I puked on her shoes. You should go for it. You could hit that."

Connor's foot slipped off the brake and he rolled for a few seconds before he found it again. "Do you even know what that means? Christ."

"Shoot, man. How old do you think I am?"

Connor had no idea. Seven? Twelve? "Do me a favor. Don't watch so much TV. And stop staring at her." Inside, the waitress had brought the bill, but neither Leah nor the man with the mustache seemed to notice. Who was this guy?

How was Connor going to get her alone, and somewhere they could talk in private?

He cut the engine despite the red curb, and fought the gusting wind that blew his door wide open into the traffic lane. It made it hard to light his cigarette.

Omar watched him warily, not commenting. It was a vast improvement over bartering for cigarettes and lighters. Connor hated to mess with such hard-earned progress, but he was running out of time. "Kid, you want to make five bucks?"

Omar's eyes narrowed. "Ten."

* * *

Five minutes later, Leah finally looked up and saw him.

"Ooh, she don't look happy," Omar said. "I don't see how you think this is gonna be your lucky day. Here, take back your smoke."

Connor took it, noting the kid said nothing about taking back his lighter. Connor tapped the ash into the wind, wondering exactly how livid she'd be when she came out that door.

"Seriously, what's in the bag?" Connor asked. "DVDs? Prada knock-offs?

Omar chewed his lip. "Black cats and bottle rockets mostly. Some poppers, too."

_Jesus Christ_. He was Seamus, twenty years ago. "I'm going to tell you right now, this is a very bad idea. And then I'm going to forget you ever told me that."

Omar frowned up at the gray sky. "It's going to be straight up garbage if I gotta walk to school in the rain."

"She'll come. There's some things she just can't let slide."

Omar took off the backpack and set it safely inside the LTD. "Hey, where's your brother?"

"Home."

"Why, he sick or something?"

"He's just home. We're not always together."

"Yeah, right. I never seen you by yourself, and I see you around all the time. You know you got a tail light out, right?"

Omar's mouth snapped shut as Leah met them on the sidewalk, her blonde hair bright against the blue of her rain jacket. "Morning, guys. Omar, shouldn't you be in school?"

"I'm gettin' a ride," Omar said. "From the school police."

"He means me," Connor said. A sudden gust blew the first drops of rain against his face. He watched the man with the mustache stride in the opposite direction to his car. Leah followed Connor's gaze, but didn't answer the obvious question.

"Just you and Omar?" she asked. "His mom's going to love that."

Connor spread his hands. "Lesser evil."

Omar shuffled his feet. "No, she's right," he said, heaving a sigh. "I'll be in more trouble than if I skipped altogether. Too bad I ain't got an umbrella."

Leah glanced back at the diner. Chaffey and Mitchell were leaving.

"Sorry. I walked from the station," she said, "but I'm sure those officers would be more than happy to-"

"Leah. He is _not_ showing up in a cruiser."

The cops hovered at the diner door. Connor gave them a nod that only Mitchell returned.

Connor kicked himself for his half-baked bait. He hadn't considered who else might be watching.

Omar looked up at Leah, eyes in full puppy-dog mode. "If you came with us, it would be okay!"

"Aye, you can make sure we don't hit any packies on the way."

Scattered sprinkles were quickly becoming rain. Leah pulled her hood up over her head. "That's not really what I…"

Omar opened the door for her, and hauled his backpack into the back. "Hurry, your seat's getting wet."

Connor started the car, hiding a smile when she got in. "Don't take 8th," she said, slamming the door. "The construction will be a mudslide in this rain."

* * *

Connor followed her directions dutifully, even though he was pretty sure he had more years of driving Southie than she did. She was worse than Murphy about a hundred times over, mostly because her advice always seemed to be right.

When they stopped at a light, she seemed to have run out of instructions. "All right, what's the angle, Omar?"

"Angle?" he said innocently. "Just a friend giving a friend a ride."

"Oh, yeah? What's in your bag?"

"Homework."

"Teachers are brutal these days," Connor said.

Leah turned back around. "He's a little young for a friend, Connor."

"Age doesn't seem to bother you."

"Yeah," Omar chimed. "You were looking pretty friendly with that grandpa."

Leah adjusted the air, not quite looking at Connor. "If that's your way of asking-"

"I didn't ask. Omar, did you ask?"

"No, I didn't ask."

"Bob is the personnel supervisor. It was a meeting, not a date."

Connor turned onto the street the school was on, suppressing the ridiculous scope of his relief into mild interest. "Job trouble?"

"Not for me." There was a beat of silence that emphasized how little she was sharing. "So Omar, how do you like being an altar boy?"

"I don't know. It's a lot of stuff to remember, but Father Tim's all right. He lets me light the candles. It's awesome at night Mass, all those candles burning at the same time."

Leah looked at Connor. It was a familiar blend of irritation mixed with exasperation. "I thought you were done playing with fire."

"I'm not playing, it's an _honored duty_, right Connor? In the service of _our Lord_. Just drop me off right there where the busses go."

"Does your mother know you serve the Lord with a Zippo lighter? The same one that put you in the service in the first place?"

Connor cringed internally. Leah turned and held out her hand to Omar, who sighed and deposited the lighter in it, then moved his open palm over into Connor's line of sight. Connor parked, and then paid up. Omar folded the bill neatly and tucked it in his jeans pocket.

"Pleasure doin' business with you," he said, hefting his backpack. "Thanks for the ride. And _you're welcome_." He grinned at Leah, then adjusted the sideways tilt of his hat before splashing to his class.

Leah watched him go. "I want to know about Vigoda."

"You need to work on your segues." He stalled for time, concentrating on pulling into traffic.

"Do you know something about his death?"

"No." Best to keep the lies simple.

"Okay, fine. Why did Murphy chase him that night at my apartment?"

"Because the man attacked you at your home, Leah. I can't-" he stopped, searching for words that didn't make him sound crazy. "Would you expect me to just let that go? Would you want me to?"

"It's not what most people would do. But I guess you're not most people."

"Neither are you. Most people would have called the cops. We've been over this. The fact that he ended up dead doesn't make _me_ a danger to you."

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

"I have to be careful," she said quietly.

"I know. It's fucking frightening to think that all of it, the plaza, the threat on your door—that it could be an inside job."

They rode the rest of the way in silence. He kept waiting for her to come around, or at least to argue with him. But then they were back at the Yolk and she was pointing out her car, not far from the cruisers.

"You can't keep running from this," he said, cutting the engine. "And you can't tell me you haven't thought about it. How Vigoda's threat came _right after_ you showed off your special skills. It was all uniforms in that crowd."

"It couldn't be. Those were friends. Those were good people."

"Every one of them? Every single one of the fifty people in that bar was a good, personal friend that you would swear by? That you would bet your life on? Because that's what you're doing."

The rain pounded on the car, making the space inside seem very quiet, and very close.

"What do you want from me?" she asked. "I mean that literally, not…the way it sounds."

It shouldn't have been so hard to answer. The warmth of the car pressed on him, and he would have rolled the window down if it hadn't been pouring. He was on uneven ground, at a loss for control. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to ask the questions, and she was supposed to tell him what he needed to know. And ideally, be grateful for his help. Instead all he could think about was how vastly she improved the scent of his car in the rain.

He cracked his door open, sucking in a stabilizing breath. "I know you already ate, but would you come in for a minute? Just one more cup?"

She looked over at her car. He stepped outside into the rain, forcing her to decide.

She threw on her hood and they ran inside, finding themselves at the same booth where she'd been earlier, shrugging off their dripping jackets while their mugs were filled.

They talked nonsense about the weather until Janice left them in peace. While they waited for the coffee to cool, Leah produced his lighter. "You know, I saw the strangest thing earlier, from this very window. Almost couldn't believe my eyes."

"Sorry. I just had him hold my smoke until you looked out and saw us. He didn't inhale."

"Why in the world would you…" Then she closed her eyes. "Jesus, you _paid_ him for that? Oh, my God."

"I needed to talk to you. In private. Without your date around, or supervisor—what were you meeting about so early in the morning?

"Suspension. Of my partner."

"Annie? What, did she kill somebody?" _Perhaps with a pen?_

Over her shoulder, he saw Dolly and Duffy come in and take seats at the counter, their suits dark around the lapels where their overcoats hadn't kept out the rain.

"She's going to," Leah said, blowing on her coffee. "I know how your brother feels about her, but—no, actually I don't. What I know is that she's reckless. She's rash, and impulsive, and I can't be responsible for her anymore. Last night, I thought….I don't want to talk about it. Why were _you_ here so early this morning?"

Connor set his mug down. "For you. I want to figure out who was the mole at McGinty's. I can't think of a better eyewitness."

"I see." She turned the lighter over in her hands, running her thumb over the scratches. Her lips were pinched, like she'd tasted something bitter.

"I gotta admit," he told her, trying to soften whatever blow he'd managed to land. "I was mighty flattered how you took note of those scratches. Such small things to remember so clearly." He smiled, shaking his head. "Until I realized it was nothin' more than an involuntary brain reflex."

"Is that what you think?"

"It's all right. I'm not holdin' it against you. I'm trying to put it to good use."

"My memory doesn't work like that, Connor. It's not automatic, not for things like that."

"What do you mean it's not automatic?"

"Normally, to recall something I didn't make it a point to remember, it needs to be in black and white."

"You remembered Vigoda's car from the plaza, and the shooters, the descriptions you gave to the cops."

"Right, because I _noticed_ those things. It's like how anyone else remembers, just a little better."

He gave her a look over the top of his mug.

"Okay, a lot better. It's only automatic if it's like printed stuff, anything I read."

"Anything."

She sighed. "'Buy one, get one fifty-percent off work boots at McCutty's. Dollar fish tacos at the The Port. Free checking at the credit union. Hardware store's now hiring a part-time manager. Lottery's up to $15 million. And—you get the point."

Connor tried not to be as impressed as he was. He was pretty sure they'd just passed all those signs on Broadway, in the pouring rain, and she'd been turned around half the time, talking to Omar.

"Hey," he said, "what about Camels being on sale? You weren't going to tell me."

"Self-editing is critical for me. As is clean air."

"Hmm."

"Honestly, Connor. It's not as glamorous as you want it to be. Most of the time I wish I could forget." She began picking up the coffee creamers, one by one, arranging them in a line.

"So, the scratches on my lighter…"

She was still looking down at the creamers. "Every once in a while, I pay attention just because I want to."

She met his eyes with a small smile and he felt himself grinning back. That dimple was going to be his downfall.

_Head in the game, jackass!_ The detectives might be out of ideas, but he wasn't leaving this booth without a lead. "So-computer screens, too?"

"Why…" Her head quirked just slightly to the side. "Why would you ask that?"

Duffy's phone had just rung. Connor watched him pinch it with his shoulder, pointing out something to Janice on the menu. Dolly was listening so intently to Duffy's side of the conversation that she had to snap her fingers to take his order.

"I'm asking if it would be the same with a computer," Connor said, trying not to stare too long at the detectives so she wouldn't feel the need to look behind her. "If you saw, like a document on a screen, you'd remember it?"

Duffy was ducking his head, asking whoever was on the line a lot of questions that didn't seem to get answered. Something was up. On a case Duffy cared about, or else he wouldn't be taking it so personally. Connor wished they'd seen him here in his booth, because he was certain they'd give him some sign if it had to do with the Saints.

Duffy rubbed his temples with one hand. Dolly said something to him and as if on cue, he turned towards the booth, locking eyes with Connor.

Dolly grabbed both their overcoats, and then they were gone. Janice returned to the counter, saw their empty stools and threw her hands in the air.

Leah's movement caught his eye. She was turning back around to face him, her face pale.

She lifted her mug, then put it back down, spilling a few drops. "What do you know about-" She cleared her throat. "Have you heard something about a computer?"

Oh, shit. _I shouldn't know that._

"Only what I've read in the papers," he tried.

She looked at him, and he saw the moisture in her eyes, and he knew how deeply he had failed.

...

* * *

.


	36. Blood

_**Author's Note:** Just a reminder: If a character mentions past events, keep in mind I've taken liberties with the time-setting of the story – it is present day._

**[Chapter 36: Blood]**

Rain pounded the tiny hatchback as they crept through the crowded streets, Annie clutching the steering wheel with both hands and leaning forward to see through the storm washed windshield. The wipers were on full speed, slinging sheets of water back and forth across the fogging glass.

She cleared her throat. He shifted and felt the pain renew in his leg.

Red lights blurred through the white haze. Annie was following closer than she should have, and barely stopped in time. They both looked down at Murphy's hand covering hers on the steering wheel. Dark scabs dotted the first three knuckles.

She resumed driving, saying nothing.

He removed his hand and adjusted the air to defrost. "Take a right at the next light."

She flipped on the blinker. "Are you still friends with Seamus Callaghan?"

Murphy's senses went on alert. His face showed nothing."Aye."

"Don't laugh, but I think I may have lost my phone near his bar last night."

"Here I thought you were working up to an apology." She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and he rolled his eyes in her direction. "This is what Beckman was ranting about," he said. "What exactly were you doing there?"

"I was on duty, Murphy. It was an emergency call. Life or death. Little things like phones can fall by the wayside." He imagined her hands would be gesturing, emphasizing the lie, if she hadn't been gripping the wheel so tightly. "I was _hoping_ someone from the bar found it, but they don't seem to be open. Or answering the phone." Her eyes darted to him. "You haven't been there recently, have you?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Don't do that."

"What?"

She gritted her teeth. "That thing where you answer all my questions with more questions, and never give me a straight answer." She braked for a light, the tires nearest the gutter sending up a loud spray.

"I haven't seen your phone since the last time you lost it, if that's what you're asking."

"That's not what I'm asking."

Car after car crossed the intersection. The hatchback idled noisily. Murphy considered getting out and walking the rest of the way, it certainly would have been quicker.

"Would you please just call Seamus and see if he's found my phone?"

He dug his phone out of his pocket, clammy fingers fumbling against the sodden denim. He dialed Seamus; it went to voicemail and he asked about the phone, leaving a friendly generic message that Seamus would be sure to get a kick out of.

"I was with Connor and some friends last night," he said finally. "We had a few beers."

"At Callaghan's?"

"I was at Callaghan's on Sunday."

She let out a small breath. "But not last night?"

He raised his eyebrows, which she decided to take for a _no_.

"What about Saturday?"

His jaw tightened automatically. "You reporting this to Beckman?"

Her lips formed a thin line. "I'm trying to get a little peace of mind. Bobby Vigoda died on Saturday. I can't pretend I don't know some things, that I don't have questions…"

"You know, I got in this car because there wasn't going to be any talking."

"Just tell me you were at McGinty's. Tell me you were at Blackstone's. Tell me you were on a date."

"I was on a date."

"Fine," she said, brushing the hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. Pink crept into her cheeks.

They were on his street now.

"You can let me off there by the trees."

She slowed at the curb, craning her neck to look up at the building that was not actually Murphy's. His was three buildings earlier, but survival instinct was speaking up loudly and he was determined to start listening.

"Looks like a nice place," she said. "Are you upstairs or down?"

"Up," he said. "Thanks for the ride."

"Murphy-"

He stepped out, hunching his shoulders against the rain, and shut the door. She didn't drive away immediately, watching as he turned and walked to the building that was not his. He pretended to unlock the door, noting that it really was locked, and hoping that she wouldn't wait around to see him safely inside. Finally the engine revved and her car crawled away from the curb and down the street.

He waited for her to turn the corner, and then hurried home, straight to the shower, peeling off his dripping clothes as he waited for the water to heat up. This was two peacoats in a week that he'd ruined. His pack of smokes was wet. The driest of the lot took a good half a minute to light, but it did light. Small mercies. He crammed/hung the coat over the towel rack and stepped in with the smoke pinched in his mouth, keeping his right hip away from the steaming spray, and letting the heat and the nicotine permeate every frayed nerve ending.

He'd said too much. He'd flipped out about Roc when he should have shut the fuck up and let her believe whatever bat-crap crazy shit she wanted to. What did it matter if she misunderstood the Saints? She could go to her grave believing Roc was a good man with bad loyalties that had never learned to stand up for anything. And that he and Connor were…whatever she thought they were.

He sucked the last of his cigarette and watched it wash down the drain. He needed to call Smecker. Somebody in that department needed to know that Frankie's death was connected, and they needed to be working on it yesterday. He turned his face into the hot spray, deciding to wait until Connor got back so they could relay all their news at once. Assuming Connor had anything to add.

A dull thud sounded from somewhere outside the shower. He stood perfectly still for a moment, listening. It was too early for Connor to be back. The sound didn't come again, but he couldn't dismiss it. He peered around the curtain. The peacoat, still wrapped around the steel towel bar, lay on top of the heap of clothes on the floor. Its weight had pulled the old screws right out of the drywall. He really needed to get a raincoat.

He wondered how much Annie really suspected. In a way, it seemed to hinge on what she _wanted_ to believe. She'd chased him down and given him a ride, which turned out to be in exchange for a favor. But then he was almost sure she'd wanted an invitation upstairs. What did that mean?

Sighing, he turned off the water, reaching for his towel as he heard the noise again. It was definitely in the apartment.

"Con?" he called. No answer. Not good. The way things were these days, they _always_ answered each other.

He climbed out silently, cinching his towel and picking up the metal towel bar. He stood back from the door as he opened it, detecting the slightest rustling coming from the direction of his bedroom. Stepping into the hall, he padded along the carpeted hallway, catching the movement of a shadow as he neared the open bedroom door.

The steel in his fist was heavy and solid.

She stepped into his line of sight, just as he raised the towel bar. "Murphy?"

"Holy fuck, Annie. I thought you were…" Well around the corner, completely oblivious to where I was going.

She was soaked as he had been, her hair in dripping waves that she pulled away from her neck, twisting it nervously as she caught sight of the towel bar in his hand.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I really had to pee, and the door was unlocked….I called when I came in, but I guess you couldn't hear me."

He shook his head, finally gesturing with the towel bar towards the bathroom. "It's all yours."

She thanked him and slipped past. As soon as the door was shut he leapt into action. Guns were okay, still in the duffel at the foot of his bed. Mask and gloves were in an indistinct pile that he kicked under the sofa. Dirty clothes got thrown in the closet, and trash crammed into the bin. A small stack of newspaper clippings made him pause. They weren't necessarily incriminating, and a part of him took issue with hiding them away. He moved them from the floor to the dining room table, next to where she'd set her handbag, as the bathroom door opened.

* * *

"Sorry…again," she said. "I could have found a public restroom, but I didn't think you'd mind. You did bring me the coffee." She gave him a small smile, and then her eyes dropped to the towel he was still wearing, which had slipped dangerously low on his hips. "Did you…want to put some clothes on?"

He leaned against the back of the sofa. "Depends on how long you're going to be here."

She felt her cheeks warm, hearing very clearly the double meaning in his words, but unsure whether it was intentional. She was partially changed from her work uniform: she'd ditched the shirt, but was still in the cargo pants, with a black nylon jacket thrown over a white tank top undershirt. The jacket was just a windbreaker, not waterproof, she now knew. For anyone with eyes to see, it was clearly not keeping her warm in any way. If Murphy had noticed, he hid it well.

"Nice place," she said. "I like the shag carpet."

Murphy crossed his arms and his face took on that studious look that meant he still hadn't figured out what to make of her visit.

_Just do it already._ "I did come to apologize," she said, before she lost her nerve. "I'm sorry for saying I'll go to Beckman. I don't want my relationship—my _association_-with him to make you keep anything from me. Whatever you know about Rocco, I just need to hear it for myself."

He gave a half shrug. "I know what you know."

She didn't bother to dignify that with a response. He was so damn stubborn.

He looked at her for a moment, then walked across the living room to the window.

"Did you know he used to call me on my birthday?"

"Really? Took him six years to remember mine and Con's." She watched his tattooed back flex as he forced the old window to slide open.

"Well, it wasn't my actual birthday, it was February 5th, but he called like clockwork, every year. I didn't have the heart to tell him."

Murphy smiled. "He always got Saint Agnes and Saint Agatha mixed up. He knew you shared a birthday with one of them." A car horn sounded in the distance, muffled by the rain and the wet wind that gusted in bursts, billowing the curtain.

Murphy stared down at the street below the window. "Roc never mentioned talking to you."

"He never mentioned you either. He was…careful not to, I think."

He turned and their eyes locked and she would have paid anything to know what thoughts were swirling around behind those blue eyes. It felt surreal. Half an hour ago they'd been screaming at each other.

She cleared her throat. "What if I end it? If I cut my ties to Beckman, will you tell me everything?"

His face darkened. "You should end it anyway."

"I know," she said, and it wasn't a lie. "It's just that the other cops in Southie are so soft on the Saints. Beckman's the only one with real conviction."

"That's not true."

He didn't raise his voice; if anything the words were quieter. But the strength of them was irrefutable. Her arguments dried up. She leaned against the table, her hand brushing a stack of newspaper clippings with big, bold headlines.

"Look, I understand what's driving you," he said, moving closer. He stood beside her at the table as she sifted through the clippings. The name Yakavetta darkened headlines on several pages. David della Rocco stood out in the column text of only a few. "We all loved him," he said. "We all wanted better for him."

"Please don't," she whispered. "I don't want to cry. I get this headache."

"I know," he said quietly. "I remember. And I remember that pact. Con and I were langered out of our minds, but we never forgot it. We were going to find a way for him to get out, to leave Yakavetta without..."

She shook her head, waiting for him to finish, but he didn't. "Without getting killed," she said. "But then I left." Her eyes burned.

"And Con and I dropped the ball."

"It wasn't your fault."

He stared down at the clippings, and then turned and walked back to the window, pushing it open as far as it would go. He returned with heavy steps, and it was a very long time before he spoke. "You're makin' a puddle on my carpet, Ann."

"Oh my God, I am. I'm sorry. I should go."

"No, I didn't mean-" He tried to stop a smile. "I meant, do you want to use the shower? I happen to know you don't have one at your place."

"Isn't Connor going to be back soon?"

Murphy eyed the door, his expression darkening. Then he sighed, and lifted a black hoodie from one of the chairs, handing it to her after a discrete (but not invisible) pat down of the pockets.

"How's that work at Jake's, do you wash in the sink?" he asked, watching her remove the nylon jacket. "You're supposed to scope a place before you move in. Every bum and free-loader knows that."

"Go ahead," she said, getting a little stuck in the oversized hoodie as she pulled it over her head. "Have your fun. I asked for it."

"You had me thinking you were so dedicated, so _committed_ to Jake's business when really you were just-"

"Downstairs because he won't let me keep the coffee maker up there. Yes, congratulations, you found me out. But I do have a bathroom, a mini-fridge in the office, plenty of space I don't have to share with a roommate…"

"Roommates are underrated. What's your ma think about it?"

"Oh, don't even go there. I haven't told her, and don't look at me like that because _you_ don't tell your mother _anything_."

"Come on, it's one thing for a couple of bachelors, but a single, beautiful woman-"

"Please. I get enough of the chauvinist stuff from Jake."

"I'm serious," he said, adjusting his towel so that she had to look away. "Jake doesn't have security bars on those windows."

"I hardly think someone's going to smash the plate glass to get to little old me."

"Well, what about a kitchen, laundry, a shower?" He craned his neck an inch to sniff her and made a face.

"Those were all happy perks of sleeping at the station," she said, leaning away with a smile. "Until today, it's worked out just fine."

"And what happened today?" he asked. "Keep talking," he said, heading down the hall, "I need pants."

She watched him every step until he disappeared into the room. "Leah happened."

Murphy pushed the door partially closed and pressed both hands over his eyes. What in the fuck was he doing? Connor _was_ going to be back any minute, and the last thing he wanted to do was explain whatever the hell was happening here.

He grabbed some boxers, accidentally ripping off part of the scab from Annie's handiwork when he dropped the towel. And all the bandages were in the kitchen. _Fuck_. They used to keep some extra supplies in the duffle, but he couldn't recall seeing any recently. He limped over to it and saw what he'd missed the first time.

The zipper on the bag wasn't closed. He always closed it. It was pulled back six inches or so, enough for prying eyes to have taken a peek. Heart beginning to hammer, his brain quickly reinterpreted every word, every sign of body language she'd shown since he'd caught her in the apartment. He looked inside the bag, as she could have—_must_ have—done. Mostly he saw rope. But below it was Connor's Beretta. Gray light shined in from the window, brighter now with a lull in the rain, but still pretty hard to see.

Goddamn it, he should have seen this coming. He should have known the moment he saw her face.

He threw on some jeans and walked quietly out to the living room, not sure where he expected to find her. Reading his mail? Digging through his trash?

She was standing at the table, reading one of the newspaper clippings.

* * *

"Find anything interesting?" he asked.

"Yeah, these are all the same articles I have." She didn't know why it felt so strange that he should have them, too. Why shouldn't he?

"I meant in my bedroom."

His tone was thinly casual, but she recognized the edge. Her heart skipped.

She stepped back from the table, clasping her hands behind her. "It's not what you think, Murphy."

"How'd you know it was mine?" he asked, moving closer, into her personal space. "Did you go through Connor's, too?"

"I didn't mean any harm. Honestly." She couldn't look him in the eye. He was breathing through flared nostrils, and the muscles in his jaw were twitching. In her mind, she was fleeing out the door. Instead her feet felt bolted to the floor. "When I heard you in the shower, I guess I should have left, but it felt…sneaky."

"Really. _That_ felt sneaky."

"I'm _really_ sorry. I'm just going to go, okay?" She swam out of his hoodie and tossed it onto the couch.

He leaned around and pressed a hand against the door. "Why are you here?"

Before she could move, he braced his other arm on the other side of her, trapping her between him and the door.

"I wanted to see your place, okay?"

"That's not what you said earlier."

"Murphy, I'm parked in a green zone."

"The only green zone's by the Laundromat. Quite a run through the rain for a girl with broken ribs and a full bladder."

She pushed a lock of hair away from her face, trying not to let her fingers shake. "I had mixed motives, is it a crime?"

"What motive made you search my _bedroom_, Annie?" His eyes flashed and she wanted to sink through the floor. "Did Beckman put you up to this? Or was it your idea?"

"I wasn't searching your room!" She sucked in a breath. The air between them smelled of soap and a faint trace of cigarettes.

"_Explain._"

This could not be happening. She looked down, and found herself staring at his tensed stomach, at the slanting angles of his hips disappearing into faded low-slung jeans. He ducked his head to look at her.

She turned the other way. "I saw the bag on your bed, and I just wondered…"

His arm flexed and the deadbolt locked behind her.

Something sparked. "I wanted to see if it was an overnight bag, all right?" She shoved both hands against him, with no effect other than pain in her own chest.

Murphy stood straighter, his eyes narrowing. She'd left red marks on his skin.

"You said you were on a date." Heat flooded her cheeks. "I was _curious_ how the date ended." There. The nightmare was complete. She should wake any moment now.

Murphy closed his eyes. "You were checking on my sex life?"

A sharp wind gusted, whipping the curtain. Neither of them moved. Rain battered the windows.

"There's a flaw in your logic, darlin'," he said, his breath light on her ear. "What if she slept here?"

"No way. I know how your wife feels about your girlfriends." Her voice lost its power, coming out in a whisper. "You caught me before I could look. So I'm still wondering."

The tattoo on his neck was pulsing with the force of the vein beneath it. She watched it, transfixed, sensing the rhythm of his breathing from the blurring edge of her vision.

He lowered an arm, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear.

Warm fingers smoothed over her jaw, lifting it, and then his lips were on hers and there was only heat, and skin, and the strength of his arms.

Her hands slid up to his shoulders, to his neck, electricity buzzing in every cell of her body. He kissed her deeply, pulling her to him until their bodies were pressed together, and all at once they were making up for the last three years.

A thought fluttered through her brain that he should have stayed in the towel. Her knees buckled.

He grabbed her ass, holding her firmly against him, torturing her with every step as he carried her to the kitchen table. Papers scattered and something toppled to the floor beside her, but all she really noticed was how hot his hands felt against her rain-chilled skin as he slipped the straps of her tank top down over her shoulders. His breath caught in her mouth as her fingers slid across his stomach to the waistband of his jeans.

A key rattled in the lock. They both froze, his hands on her bra clasp and hers on his zipper. They broke apart, breathing hard.

There was the sound of a muffled curse, and the deadbolt unlocked.

Murphy took a step back that felt like miles. Tugging her straps up quickly, she slid off the table, not entirely balanced as Connor walked in, slamming the door behind him.

He tossed his keys onto the table, catching sight of her as he let go of them. The keys whipped across the wood and onto the floor.

Her face red-hot, all she could do was smile. "Hi, Connor."

Oh, for a camera to capture that look on his face. He looked at Murphy, and then continued straight into the kitchen.

She waited for one of them to say something. But the only sound was the fridge opening and then the pop of a beer can.

"I should get going," she said, still feeling like she'd just stepped off the Tilt-a-Whirl. Maybe he'd walk her down. There was no way to sort this out in present company.

"Aye."

His hair was slightly disheveled, and he had a look like he'd been shaken from sleep. Painfully aware of his bare skin, and his scent, and his body heat, she forced herself to concentrate on surveying the damage. Her purse had taken a dive off the table, along with all the scraps of newspaper. She met his eyes with a small smile. He glanced toward the kitchen and rubbed a hand over his face.

Silence radiated from the empty doorway, thick and toxic. Murphy crouched and gathered up the scattered contents of her purse, and then handed it to her without a word.

Her heart plummeted. There was nothing to sort out.

She didn't bother to put on her wet jacket as she stepped past him into the hall. "Bye, Connor!" she called, "Great apartment!" She walked quickly to the stairs, trying to beat the sound of the door latching behind her.

Fuck Connor. And fuck Murphy and his co-dependence.

There was something hard in her throat that grew sharper the more she cursed them. She was so stupid. She knew where the limits were. Why did she always have to push them? Why could she never just let things _be_? Misreading signals was one thing. Expecting MacManus men to change fundamentally was beyond idiotic.

Never again.

The air downstairs was colder. She was shivering by the time she reached the ground floor.

Quick footfalls thudded on the stairs above.

She paused, listening to them coming closer, and then caught herself. _No, never again._

The storm outside was safer.

"Ann, wait."

Gritting her teeth, she hugged her purse and ducked her head against the cold rain pelting her skin. A couple buildings down, she ducked under an awning to fish out her keys so she wouldn't have to do it standing in the open. She stared unseeing into her purse, hearing nothing but the creak of Murphy's building door and the splash of his jogging footsteps closing in.

His unlaced boots appeared on the concrete beside hers. "I'm sorry," he said, breathing fast. "It's not you. It's not even really Connor."

"Hey, I know." A shiver passed over, making her teeth chatter. "It's fine. I'm fine. I can't believe I barged in on you like that. I don't know what's got into me."

His boots shifted, moving closer. "Ann, would you look at me?" He pushed his dripping hair off his face, sending streams of water down into the wide collar of the black sweatshirt he wore, thrown over his bare shoulders. There was something in his eyes she couldn't name, but it was bright and painfully intense.

Maybe if God hadn't made them such a piercing blue, or if the rain hadn't darkened his brows and lashes to such a hard, deep black. No one could have held that gaze.

So it really wasn't her fault that she had to look down, and see what she saw.

There was a red spot on his upper thigh. It hadn't been there five minutes ago. It was small, and grew steadily larger as she watched.

"Is that blood?"

He breathed a curse as she looked down at herself, at her uniform pants, at the area that she almost couldn't believe had been pressed against him only minutes ago. Had a buckle or a snap snagged, or cut him somehow? The only tool still on her was her trauma sheers, which were blunt-tipped…there was something about the location on his leg…

The world seemed to speed up and slow down all at once. "Oh my God. Is that-?"

"No." He pressed a hand over it.

It was impossible. Yet it made a disturbing amount of sense.

"That was you last night." The ground tilted and she steadied herself on the door behind her. "That was _you_! What were you doing there?"

Black narrowed around laser blue.

"You do know the Saints. Seamus _is_ holding secret meetings. Beckman was right to follow you. You are such a liar!"

"Well, what did you expect? You're informing on me to a fucking cop."

Cold air hit her teeth and she realized her mouth had dropped open. He was admitting it, _out loud_. Questions and accusations swirled in her mind, scrambling for priority.

"You asshole, you broke my ribs! I had to get an x-ray. Leah made me go to the friggin' ER."

He looked at her like she was mad. "You stabbed me with a fucking pen."

"After you attacked me!"

"I didn't need you ringing up your douche-bag boyfriend. What the fuck were you thinking, coming back there? You're damn lucky it was me you ran into."

"You're lucky I didn't hit what I was aiming for!"

This was too much. She set off for her car, leaving him bleeding under the awning. He splashed alongside her. She sped up. He kept pace, limping slightly.

"Are you going to let me explain?"

"Go ahead. Explain what you're really hiding in that precious duffel bag."

He didn't answer.

She laughed, reaching into her purse for her keys. An explanation. That was all she had wanted from him. And he would never deliver. "I wish it were that easy, Murphy. I really do."

Something jangled. Her keys dangled before her eyes, looped on his tattooed finger.

"When did you take my keys? Give me those."

He turned and chucked them before she could make the grab. They crash landed on the fire escape behind them. "See? Easy."

"Oh, come on!" There was no way she could reach them. He probably could, if he stood on a trash can and stretched.

"We're going to talk about this, Ann."

Raindrops splattered her eyelashes. She could not be more soaked and freezing if she jumped in the Charles fully clothed.

He took her hand and started to lead her back the way they'd come.

She locked her knees. "I'd rather die of pneumonia than be in the blast radius when Connor finds out I know your dirty little secret."

He stopped, muttering a curse, and then changed direction toward the Laundromat behind her.

It felt like a sauna inside. She sighed, soaking up the humid heat. An older woman sat folding towels on the chairs near the door, eyeing them as they squeaked toward the back, between the rows of machines. Annie crouched down and leaned against a dryer that was running. "Better talk fast. If you bleed out, I'm leaving your ass."

He took off his wet sweatshirt, and she averted her eyes, irritated with herself for falling victim the first time. He wasn't looking at her either. He leaned against the washer opposite her and balled up the sweatshirt, the veins in his forearms like ropes as he pressed it over his leg.

"Are you sure you want to do this right now?" she asked.

His eyes roamed the near-empty room, and the humming machines. "I don't want to do this at all. But how can I let you go to Beckman, thinking…."

"Forget about Beckman, okay? Tell me the truth about Rocco, and I'll listen to anything you have to say. Not saying I'll believe you, but I'll listen."

He looked down at her, and she could see the exhaustion in his eyes. Favoring her ribs, she slid to sit with her back against the warm machine. He sat down awkwardly next to her, keeping the sweatshirt on his wound.

"He was in Yakavetta's house," she prompted gently. "In the basement, with a bunch of other soldiers…."

His voice was quiet when he finally spoke. "He wasn't with them. You didn't know this, but Yakavetta had tried to sell him out. Roc wasn't takin' orders any more."

"So he was there uninvited?"

Murphy's eyes were on the washing machine. The suds swirled and turned, making a strange sort of pattern in their tumbling. "Con's going to kill me for telling you this."

She didn't answer. His brother's name was a painful reminder of just how much was out of her control.

"Yakavetta caught him, and killed him." He took a breath and went on. "The Saints prayed for him like they did all the others, which is why there were coins on his eyes."

The ground was tilting again, making her stomach turn.

"Roc's killer is dead, Annie. The Saints took care of him. I wish I could have told you earlier, but it's like you've been on this quest. Hunting the wrong people."

She felt his face turn towards her and she closed her eyes. She'd wondered. She'd suspected. But she had never been able to voice the questions. It had been so much simpler to blame. Choosing a side, applying for the medic job, getting on that East-bound plane—every step had felt like progress. It had all been meaningless.

All this time, he had known.

He leaned, resting his shoulder gently against hers. "I'm sorry, darlin'."

She stiffened. "How do you know all this?" Slowly, she shifted to sit sideways in the aisle, so she could look at him. "How deep are you?"

His eyes darkened.

"Why do you say I'm lucky someone else didn't get me last night? If your buddies the Saints are such good guys."

"There's a lot worse people out there than the Saints, Ann. They're not your enemy. If you'd have been here, seen how it's all gone down, you'd be on their side. We wouldn't be having this conversation."

She gave him a look that made him smile and run a hand through his hair. "Now you think I'm crazy," he said.

"Murphy, the day I met you, you were getting a ten-inch cross tattooed on your forearm. You'd quit smoking before you'd quit going to Mass." He made a face that said it was debatable. "Your faith, your commitment to something bigger—it's powerful. I would never want to change that about you. But these Saints are _zealots_."

"Maybe they are."

"You don't see the danger there? Think 9/11. Think the last few centuries in the Middle East. Hell, think of your own country."

"Think of what you _yourself_ have been doing, Ann. It's not a vendetta. And it's not about religion. It's about balance. It's about fixing something that's broken."

"I don't see it. All I see is more blood, and more pain."

"Aye, and it's not over yet. It's necessary. I wish you could just take my word for it."

"Take your word," she said. "Honestly, Murphy, it's like you _want_ me to throw every lie right back in your face."

He dropped the balled up sweatshirt on the floor beside him. "I told you to leave it alone. I told you not to mess with it." The blood on his leg had spread to the width of her palm. He wiped his blood-smudged hands on the damp sweatshirt and she noticed the scabs again.

"Who were you fighting?"

He looked at his knuckles and made a fist.

"It was more of a discussion."

"With Connor?"

"With a concrete floor. All right, Ann. Ask your questions. If I can't answer, I won't. No lies."

She should have stabbed him a long time ago.

She rewound the last week and a half. What qualified as questionable anymore? The desperate search for an old tattoo design? Having her fix up Leah and Connor? If everything was related to the Saints, then that meant nothing between the two of them had been real. She adjusted her tank top, still able to feel every inch of skin where he'd touched her.

Too warm now next to the dryer, she stood. "Did Vigoda ever really owe you money?"

He let his head rest on the machine behind him. "No."

"I knew it." Memories flashed from the last time he'd sat bleeding on a floor before her. "Your 'fire hydrant' head wound…" She put a hand on the dryer, unsettled at the thought that bombarded her. "That blue glass I dug out of your scalp, that you washed down the drain? The next morning, when I found Frankie dead, his floor was scattered with blue glass. Very similar blue glass. Possibly identical."

Their eyes locked.

"I admit it looks bad," he said, struggling to his feet, "but there's more to that story. It wasn't us."

"Us," she repeated. "My God, it was _Frankie_. A punk who lived for tattoos and weed. He didn't deserve to die."

"No, he didn't."

"You said you wouldn't lie. Do you just _know_ the Saints, or…are you out there helping them?"

"The Saints aren't responsible for what happened to Frankie. It was someone else."

"I have the pennies, Murphy!" She'd raised her voice.

Stone-faced, he glanced toward the old woman at the front, who was leaving.

He leveled his eyes at Annie, not speaking until the door swung shut and it was just the two of them. "Hand over the pennies to the cops. Run them for DNA. You'll see they don't prove shit."

Her mind was spinning. "Vigoda worked for Curry Wok. His food went undelivered Saturday night, except for one order. Sunday morning you brought me a fortune cookie. I thought you were so sweet."

"Vigoda was a pawn. There's more going on here than just the Saints wiping out evil men. I'm sure Beckman told you that Yakavetta's lawyer was about to air a lot of people's dirty laundry when he got killed. Somebody's set on keeping those secrets buried, and they're taking out anyone who gets in the way."

Annie digested this, her mind snapping back to a hazy conversation in a Martini bar. "Beckman didn't tell me anything. He only wanted to know about the Saints. And Leah." _And you_.

"That's another thing," he said, frowning. "I'm telling you this for your own sake, Annie. Every sign is pointing to an inside job. Inside the department."

"Wait. You think Beckman's dirty? Where are you getting this information?"

"Doesn't matter. He doesn't have anyone vouching for him. He works without a partner, and the way he treats you…it's not professional. And it isn't only me who sees it. This isn't personal."

"No, I'm sure it's not."

He scrubbed a tiny blood spot on the floor with his boot. "Annie, about before…"

"Oh, God, that was so not what I was trying to do, showing up at your place." She was not feeling entirely in control of her mouth. "Let's just forget it, okay? Please?"

His blue eyes pierced her. She shivered, acutely aware of how very alone they were.

"Stay here," he said finally. "I'll get your keys." He walked out without looking back.

She sank to the floor, wanting nothing more than to be home, under the blankets of her futon and out of these cold, damp clothes. Her purse slouched beside her. Of course—he must have snagged her keys after it had spilled off the table. Her heart skipped. Had he found the baggie with the bloody pen too? She dumped the purse out on the floor between her legs, saw immediately that it wasn't there, and heaved a sigh.

There was no way to ask him about it, either.

She gathered her things and walked to the door. Murphy must be having a hell of time getting the keys. She slipped on the damp nylon jacket and steeled herself for the cold, and then a movement caught her eye and she saw him –leaning against the building outside, smoking, examining the blood spot on his thigh.

She pushed the door halfway open.

"Why don't you drop your pants, let me take a look?"

He raised an eyebrow. "So you can get better aim?"

"I won't miss this time."

"No, you'll faint and I'll have to carry you home." He flicked his cigarette butt into the rain and gave her the keys.

She smiled. "I told you, that was a fluke."

He stood and squinted up at the gray sky. "So are we good?"

"I need some time to process. This is a lot to take in."

He took a deep breath, cocking his head as he considered her.

"I won't talk to anyone," she said. "Not Jake, not Beckman."

"He won't let you off that easy."

"I know. It'll be easier if I don't know anything else." She swallowed, knowing what needed to be said and somehow still hoping he'd disagree. "If I don't see you for a while."

He rubbed an eyebrow, and then nodded. "Take care, Ann. If you need anything-"

"Likewise. Good luck with Connor." She gave him a tight smile, and then ran through the rain to her car before either of them had to make a decision about the good-bye.

.


	37. Weakness

[Chapter 37: Weakness]

.

Murphy trudged up the stairs, slowing as he reached the top. Shooting stars pulsed along the edges of his vision. Dry clothes. Dry clothes and about a gallon of water to drink, and then a cigarette.

He pushed the door open and steeled himself for a Category 5. It didn't happen. At least, not yet. Connor was simmering on the couch, a beer in one hand, remote in the other, the TV volume turned all the way down.

Murphy leaned a shoulder against the wall while he pulled off his sodden boots and dropped them on the linoleum inside the door.

Connor turned the TV off.

"It's taken care of," Murphy said before he could start. "She's not going to be a problem."

Connor rose from the couch and Murphy could feel vibrations in the air. "Why was she here?"

Why was _Connor_ here? He hadn't expected him back for at least another hour. "It's kind of a long story," he said, shortening it by leaving out the beginning, and his visit to the shop. "I didn't _bring_ her here. She sort of…broke in." Connor turned his head sharply and Murphy added, "It was unlocked."

Connor closed his eyes. "How did she know which unlocked door was yours?"

"She followed me up to use the friggin' john. She wanted to talk about Roc."

"Well, what did you tell her? I swear to God, Murph, if you-"

"I didn't tell her _everything_. Just that we…have helped. That we're in contact."

"Oh, is that all?" He shook his head, then tipped back the last of his beer, crushed the can in one hand and hurled it against the wall. "Have you lost your fucking mind?"

"I had to tell her something—she fuckin' saw _this_." He turned, and Connor saw his blood stained jeans and swore. "I had to set her straight about Roc," Murphy said. "It was the only way I could get her to back down off her fucking witch hunt."

"So, that's what you were _discussing_ when I walked in?"

"No." Murphy tugged off his sweatshirt and tossed it over a chair. "That was nothing. Momentary lapse in judgment."

"Are you high? You can't do this! We can't—neither of us can afford a compromise like that right now. We talked about this, we _agreed_."

"I know."

"I don't think you do! You had her on the goddamn dining room table, Murph!"

Murphy bit his tongue, making for the bedroom for a change of clothes. Connor followed him.

"What if she saw something? What if-"

"She didn't. I was careful. We talked, then…you came home." His leg throbbed when he stepped out of his jeans. "Did Greenly call?"

"He didn't, and don't change the subject-fuck, you're a mess. Is that all from this morning?"

"I busted a stitch on the way downstairs. She freaked, but I convinced her to stay and hash it out with me in the Laundromat."

"Jesus. I knew we should have used the iron." He disappeared, and came back with bandages.

Murphy sat on the edge of the bed and taped it up as best he could.

"You're falling apart. We're going to have to let Mancini breathe for a few more days."

"No. I'm fucking fine. I want this over and done with, the sooner the better. You got something from Leah, I hope."

Connor's face darkened. "A bit. I'll go try Greenly again."

Murphy threw on yet another set of dry clothes and joined him in the dining room, noticing a few newspaper clippings he'd missed lying under the table.

"Tell me you have good news," Connor was saying. He adjusted the phone on his ear, his eyes closing in obvious frustration. "No, Sean. You all said it was impossible, remember? A Sicilian Fort Knox…Dolly didn't have anything else? Fine…fine, just give it to me." He gestured to Murphy for something to write on. Murphy found a pen and a napkin, and Connor repeated an address aloud as he wrote it down. It was in a town Murphy recognized as one of Boston's wealthier suburbs, not far from where Annie had gone to college.

Murphy moved closer to listen in, but Greenly's voice was barely audible, as if he were whispering.

"Really? What did he find?...What do you mean he won't tell you? I thought you were his bitch. I mean—I thought you were playin' at….oh, you fucking know what I mean." Connor's lips formed a line as he listened. "Well, keep trying. Okay. All right, I understand. Just keep us updated."

He ended the call, staring down at the phone for a moment.

"The douche found something. But he's not sharing with the class, so Greenly's been busy stalking him all morning. We've got nothing new. Just the damn fortified mansion in Chestnut Hill."

"What did he find?"

"No idea." Connor squeezed his temples. "But Greenly says he's on it like a bloodhound."

"Who is, Greenly or Beckman?"

"Beckman's the bloodhound. Greenly's on _him_ like shit on a shoe."

"Now you sound like Smecker." The man they should be talking to right now. Murphy went back to his room for a sweater and his only other pair of shoes, and then checked the duffel for the field binoculars they'd splurged on the last time they'd hit the Army/Navy surplus store.

"What are you doing?" Connor asked. "You need to rest up."

"I'll rest up in the car. We're not sitting around waitin' for Greenly to do our job for us. Let's go case Fort Knox."

…

* * *

The neighborhood wound around a broad hill, the properties spaced widely apart, with elaborate gates of wrought iron and stone, each with gatehouses or security card readers limiting access. Most were surrounded by high stone walls so that views from outside were possible only through the open scrollwork of the gates. What they could see was mostly landscaping: lengthy, tree-lined driveways disappearing through manicured lawns at the end of which enormous private estates rose into the gray sky.

They found Mancini's address easily enough, being careful not to slow down too much as they passed. There appeared to be private maintenance roads running behind and along one side of the estate, with mounted cameras that Murphy was able to see with the binoculars. The estate nearest to Mancini's was across and slightly north along the wide, maple-lined street. Its perimeter wall was less maintained, or possibly intentionally overgrown to ensure privacy from undesirable mob-family neighbors. Ten-foot high aged brick, covered with green moss and twisting ivy, ran along the edge of the street, then cut back in to border a half-circle turnaround driveway that led to a security kiosk and solid oak main gate. A slow spin through the driveway revealed the kiosk to be unmanned.

Connor backed the car around and parked along the inside of the wall, facing the street. They didn't have much of a view into Mancini's estate, but they'd be able to see which cars were coming and going and whatever interactions took place at his security gatehouse.

After twenty minutes with no one shooing them off the property, Murphy lit his first smoke and slid his seat all the way back. For the rest of the morning, they took turns with the binoculars, taking note of which cars were stopped and which were waved through. Many of the faces were familiar, from either Yakavetta's old regime, Buffone's funeral, or from the various mugshots they'd seen in Smecker's files. Back when he was still sharing them.

They discussed the mafiosos, and nothing more, until Murphy opened his door to take a piss and had to white-knuckle the door frame just to get to his feet.

"She really worked you over good, didn't she?" Connor asked.

It was a question so loaded it could only be rhetorical, so Murphy finished and zipped his pants, lighting a cigarette by way of an answer.

"What did she say when you told her?" Connor asked, his tone changing slightly when Murphy shut the door again.

How could he summarize a conversation like that? Murphy shrugged. "She called us zealots."

Connor mulled that over. "I think that's the nicest thing she's ever called me."

"Not true. She once called you wiry."

A car passed, slowing at Mancini's gate. Peering through the binoculars, Connor read the license plate aloud to Murphy, who added it to a growing list to be discussed with whichever detective decided to call them back first.

"You're sure she's going to keep her mouth shut?" Connor asked.

And there it is, Murphy thought_._ He took a long, deep pull.

"She doesn't hate _us_. She hated the Saints. Now she's trying to wrap her head around the fact that she's on the same side that they are—that _we_ are. It's a complete 180. It'll take some time."

Connor kept the binoculars up. "I'm sure it will. But that's not really what I asked."

"She's cool, Con. What she does know, she'll keep to herself."

She knew the truth about Roc, but not about him. Not yet. It was like a heavy weight had been lifted off his shoulders—and then suspended over his head with a frayed, disintegrating rope.

"You can't see her anymore, Murph. You know that, right? It's too risky, and she already knows too much."

Murphy thought of her, backed against his apartment door, her mouth sweet and warm despite the chill on her skin. "It's done. She said it before I could."

"Is that going to be enough?" Connor lowered the binoculars. "I wouldn't ask, but-"

"Yes, you would." Murphy flicked the butt of his smoke out the window.

"Don't turn this on me, Murph. I'm really makin' a fucking effort here. Granted, she may not be the enemy, but that does _not_ mean she's not a threat."

Connor looked like there was more he had to say, but the phone rang, saving Murphy from further conversation. He glanced at the screen—Greenly. He tossed the phone to his brother.

"What do you got for me?" Connor answered. He squeezed his temples. "That's it?... Aye, we're still here….Let me ask you something, who's Mr. Pink?" He nodded. "Okay, and what about the guy with the buzz cut?"

He ran through the list of plate numbers, and then set the pen down. "Explain to me how this works, Sean. Can't Smecker just demand that Beckman tell you guys what it is?" He frowned, closing his eyes with a sigh, and ended the call by asking again that Greenly keep them in the loop.

"Beckman's off his leash," he told Murphy. "The douche breezed in this morning, went straight to Evidence, ordered all the tests results confidential, for his eyes only. The fact that there's suspicion of something internal is apparently giving him a lot of leeway."

"Smecker's still in charge of the Saints investigation though, right? So if it was related to that, wouldn't he have a say?"

"You'd think. Maybe it's not necessarily Saints. There's a lot unsolved out there right now, probably a lot of shit we don't even know about. Could be something else he's working on. Greenly doesn't even know where it came from—the office building, Frankie's, the fucking pub…All he could say is it's smaller than a fucking bread box."

Murphy took the phone and tried Seamus, leaving a message when he didn't answer. "I talked to him this morning. He said all was quiet."

"Well, they're going to come looking for their thugs eventually."

"Aye, all the more reason to get this over with."

"I don't know." Connor looked at Mancini's gate doubtfully, keying the ignition. "But I've seen enough for today. We can hit Saint Auggie's on the way home."

…

* * *

Murphy was kneeling beside his brother, reciting the Rosary prayer in the familiar Latin, when Connor rocked back on his heels.

"Hold on. How did Annie follow you to the apartment?"

Murphy pinched the bead he was on to save his place and turned to face his brother. Not that they'd ever been big on convention, but Connor had spoken so loudly that the other two parishioners stopped and turned to look their way. Sister Margaret swished by, arching a brow.

"We can talk about this later, Con."

Connor put his rosary back on, tucking it soundly under the collar of his shirt. "Just explain to me how she _followed_ you to our apartment, if you were already there."

Murphy stood, squeezing the beads in his fist. Then he walked out. Connor followed, letting the door slam behind him.

"I went for coffee," Murphy said.

"Oh? This is fucking new."

"It's not earth-shattering, Con. When it started raining, she gave me a ride. I had her drop me half a block down, and I _saw_ her drive away. She must have turned around."

Connor ran his tongue along his bottom teeth. "That's it?"

"That's it."

They went back to the car.

"_That's it?_"

"Fuck, Con, what else do you expect?"

"I don't know, Murph, that's why I'm fucking asking! You seem to leave out a lot of vital information where she's concerned."

"Forgive me if I think some things are personal. That some small scrap of my life might stay sacred."

"Jesus fucking Christ. I'm not asking what color her panties are! I want to know how much of a liability she is! If we're going to get hauled in, I want it to be our own doing, not because she let some fucking prettyboy detective buy her one too many drinks."

Murphy looked out the window, hating Beckman so deeply it was probably a sin. "I'm sorry," he said. "You're right. I should have told you-she's through helping him."

With a sharp laugh, Connor stopped at a light. "You're as deluded as you were the first time around."

"No. She's finally seen the fucking light, and the bastard is out of the picture. Period."

"Don't be a fucking idiot. A man—a _bloodhound_-like that is never going to be out of the picture. Especially now that he's her only real contact."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm surprised she didn't tell you. Annie got fired."

"What?" The boxes, the laundry basket with her boots and pillow. Had she started to explain why? Oh yes-but then he'd gone to put on pants and things had pretty much spiraled from there.

"Well, I shouldn't say fired. Leah got her suspended, after her little stunt chasing after masked men in dark alleys. I guess she's too dangerous to stay on the job." He didn't bother to hide his smile at the thought.

"Fuckin' hell," Murphy said. "Leah was the one who blew the damn siren. That was Beckman staking us out last night, you know. Not Mancini. Leah _was_ warning us. Well, not us, but the Saints. Got a few double standards, that one."

"Are we taking sides now?"

"We've taken sides since day one. I'm just glad this is all going to be over soon. We'll finish the job…then we can see what shakes out."

Connor looked at him, and Murphy could see the gears turning, that a decision was already beginning to cement in his brother's mind.

"I think this time Greenly may be right," Connor said, parking the car outside their apartment and cutting the engine with an air of finality. "The estate isn't our best option."

"It's our only option. We'll make it work, we've done it before."

"Aye, we've done it before, and look what happened. At Yakavetta's we got caught by a motion sensor in a damned hydrangea bush. We didn't know the security set-up, we didn't even know the floor plan!"

"Things are different now. I'm sure Dolly's got specs on the house. Satellite view can give us access points, and we've got Seamus and Rhon for a distraction. Have a little faith, would ya?"

"No. Too many variables here, too much out of our control."

The phone rang. "You mean _your _control," Murphy said.

"Do you really want to talk to me about control right now, little brother?" He shook his head in disgust, answering the call, "Seamus, what's the craic?"

"Put it on speaker," Murphy told him. Connor waved him off so Murphy punched the button himself.

Seamus's accent filled the car. _"…are all loaded, but I gotta tell you, the refrigeration in my truck only goes down to about 45 degrees, so we're on the clock_."

"Understood," Connor said, grimacing at Murphy. "Any visitors today?"

"_None that came knocking_."

"Outside? Is Mancini sending drive-bys?"

"_Every car that drives by I think is Mancini. I've been in some serious shit before, but this is…Fellas, I just loaded three dead bodies in my keg truck._"

Murphy almost felt sorry for him. Then he remembered the keg truck was normally loaded up with illegal assault rifles.

Seamus sighed. "_Rhon's taking it hard. She's been talking about packin' up, going home_."

Connor said, "You both need sleep-"

"_Home to Ireland, Connor_."

"We hear you, Seamus," Murphy said. "Just give us tonight. I promise you, we're going find a way out. We're going to end this once and for all."

"I know you will, Murph. Oh, I did find that phone in the alley, like you said. No pen, though. Your darlin' girl must have run off with it."

Connor's eyes lifted from the phone. "The pen?"

Murphy didn't hear whatever else Seamus said, because Connor cut him off, saying they would call him back later.

"Con—"

Connor shoved out of the car. Murphy caught up to him at the building door. "Con, she doesn't have it-"

"No, she already fucking gave it to Beckman!"

"She didn't. I saw her tell him-"

"You _saw her tell him_? What, did you all meet up at Dunkie's together?" He thundered up the stairs. Murphy struggled after him, leaning hard on the railing, determined that he'd ripped open the scab for the last time.

"He came by the shop this morning!" Murphy shouted, knowing the risk of exposure would get his idiot brother's attention. "She had me stay back in the office!" A lower-level neighbor whose door was open eyed him and pulled his door shut. Nostrils flaring, Connor slowed until Murphy caught him at the landing outside their door. "It's a long story," Murphy said more quietly, "but it's _not_ a big deal. Look, I didn't tell you earlier because I knew you'd fucking flip out like this. Beckman was pissed about getting his stake-out blown. She told him about stabbing someone, he asked where the pen was and she said she didn't know."

"So he went back to the alley himself and found it."

"No. You heard Seamus say it was quiet all morning. It could be anything that he found! There's no reason to assume it's that pen."

"It is the pen! What else would it be?" Connor hissed, struggling to unlock the door and dial the phone at the same time. "He must have gotten it from Annie when you weren't looking. She knew you were watching, do you think she'd hand over your DNA right in front of you?"

"That was _before_ she knew it was me. Who are you calling?" Murphy asked, reaching to see the phone.

Connor shoulder-checked him, knocking him off-balance. "Well, she knows now, and suddenly Beckman's got evidence. Fucking think about it, Murph." He shoved the door open. Murphy caught it before it slammed in his face. Connor turned to face him, propping the phone with his shoulder, holding a fist up in warning. "Jake, it's Connor. Listen, is Annie around?"

Murphy faked to the side without the phone, and when Connor spun to block, Murphy darted to snatch it from the other side. Connor's elbow caught him in the ribs and the phone dropped away. Murphy absorbed the blow, grabbing his brother's arm and twisting it behind his back. "What the fuck, Connor? _I_ trust her, therefore you won't?"

Connor sucked a breath, kicking at Murphy's legs. "Pretty much, aye. Savin' us all some time."

Connor's boot heel connected with his shin, loosening his grip. They both lunged for the phone. Connor got there first. The call had disconnected, but he quickly dialed again.

The triumph on his face sickened Murphy. "This isn't about Annie," Murphy realized. "This is about you not having a scrap faith in anyone but yourself."

Connor got to his feet, and Murphy had half a mind to take his feet out from under him, but suddenly Connor was standing over him, his boot held firmly and meaningfully on Murphy's injured upper thigh.

"Don't even fucking think about," Murphy warned.

Connor's foot pressed harder. It was Connor's good leg, which meant his weight was on the leg with his bad knee. All it would take was a sharp push at the right angle…

"Jake, sorry about that…" Connor said. Murphy made his move. Connor dropped like a stone, grunting but still keeping hold of the phone. There was a flash of fury in his eyes, and a blur of movement and pain exploded in Murphy's temple. The edges of his vision began to dim.

"Have her call me when she gets back, would you?" was the last thing he heard before the world went black.

...

.

* * *

A/N: Thanks Goddess & Pitbullsrok, Elizabeth Bartlett, The Cocky Undead, Jianali, Effigy, lochrann, and all you newcomers who are just joining us on this epic adventure. I appreciate every single one of you, and truly value your feedback on this story. Thanks, guys!


	38. Dark Night

_Author's Note:_ My dearest readers, I'm sorry to have kept you waiting! We had such a good run there, didn't we? For a month or two, before this monster of a chapter (along with a huge dose of RL) kicked my butt. I've fought the urge the chop it into smaller posts, and instead offer it to you whole—the longest L&S chapter…ever. I hope it will do, for now. As always, I so appreciate your feedback.

* * *

**[Chapter 38: Dark Night]**

Connor had lost track of how long he'd been driving the streets of Southie, mulling over the mess that his mission had turned into. He hadn't heard from Annie, which left him stewing although not particularly surprised. Knowing her, knowing him-he wouldn't have called back either.

Callahan's was back open for business. The street out front was so packed he had to park a block away, not far from the same spot he'd peeled out of the night before. One would think the place had been closed for a whole week rather than just one night. He checked out the other cars on his way in. No pretentious BMWs, only the standard flock of oversized Southie-native early model sedans.

He ordered a pint from the barmaid, scanning the surroundings as she poured. Seamus and Rhonnie had worked a miracle with the clean up. There wasn't a glint of gunmetal, or the slightest scent of blood. Of course, downstairs had been the real disaster.

The memory of it struck him hard and his hand clenched around the thick glass of his beer mug. A seat opened up and he took it, pushing the images to the back of his mind, instead examining the walnut bar for any markings of Rhonnie's buried treasures. The false drawer-fronts and shadowed cubbies were no longer invisible to him. Nor was the camera lens nestled between the tap handles that hadn't been there the night before. Something burned in him at Seamus's audacity – the nerve, the total ownership without any hint of apology. What was this feeling? Envy?

He raised his glass to the camera and wasn't surprised when a few minutes later, Seamus appeared on the stool next to him. He'd cut his goatee short to hide the patchy areas left by the duct tape.

"Here alone?" Seamus asked.

"Murph's taking a break."

"From drinkin'?"

"From being a fucking idiot."

"Ah." Seamus slid a cell phone onto the bar. It was Annie's.

Connor scrolled through her contacts. There were recent calls and texts from Leah, Annie's sister Hope, Jake, and Beckman. The text conversation thread with Beckman started a week prior, on the day they'd found Frankie dead and Beckman had first come sniffing around Jake's shop. He started at the top and read every single message, catching a vague hint of flirtation. Granted, it was mainly from Beckman's side, but it still sent Connor straight back to the day she'd left his brother without the decency of a goodbye.

Seamus watched him.

"What?" Connor asked.

"Don't drink my beer and then sit there and keep the good stuff from me."

Connor tilted the phone, letting him read the worst of it.

Seamus took it and scrolled to the bottom, to an exchange of clipped messages from the night before, about the time he was being rescued in his own cellar. He scratched his scabby chin, and then gave the phone back.

"You don't see a problem with that?" Connor asked.

Seamus shrugged, and Connor let it drop. He'd spend more time combing through it later, but right now, he was in no mood to give a shit about anything.

He gave Seamus Doc's address and warned him not to show up without calling first unless he wanted to see what affect a lifetime of paranoia could have on a loaded six-shooter. Then he told him about the Mancini estate.

"What do you think?" Connor asked.

"I think you're a fucking lunatic."

"What the fuck? It's a good plan, considering."

"It's like something out of a movie. And not the end of the movie where it all works out, but like the middle, where everything gets fucked up."

Connor set his glass down. "You're a regular ray of sunshine, you know that?"

"If we go down, at least we'll be swingin'." Seamus took a long drink, then set his glass down with a bang. "So. What did Murphy do this time?"

Using his thumbs, Connor spun the phone on the weathered bar. "I'll give you three guesses, but you're only going to need one."

"You know, it's none of my business, but did you ever think maybe there's a reason he keeps circling back to her?"

"If you're going to start with the romantic shit, I'm out the fucking door."

Seamus grinned into his beer. "You know, if I was a therapist-"

"And ye aren't."

"Bartender. Same thing. I get your problem with her right _now_, of course." Seamus turned to face him, leaning low on one elbow. "What about later?"

Connor shrugged, not liking the direction he was heading. "When's later?"

"_Later_. There is going to be life after this, you know," he said. "Or so Rhonnie keeps telling me. She says otherwise, why not let the gumbas take us out today?"

"Aye, but if there were no gumbas in the picture…"

Seamus swirled his beer, looking tired. "That's why I love you, MacManus. If you don't like the view, you break down the walls and fucking change the landscape."

Connor felt the weight of Annie's phone in his pocket-landscape he didn't know how to change.

A phone rang. His, not hers. The display said _Greenly_.

"I'd better take this outside," he said.

"Aye," Seamus took both their glasses and reached over the bar to set them in a sink. "We're going to move on this soon, right?"

"I'll call you," Connor said, already on his way out. He caught Greenly on the last ring. "Talk to me."

"_Connor?_" Greenly sounded hurried. "_No—Murphy, right?_"

"Wrong. Connor," he said, heading up the street to his car, noticing a pair of unsmiling faces ahead in a black Caddie that he was about fifty percent sure he'd passed on the way in. He made eye contact as he approached. They did not look away.

He wondered if Seamus was aware of his anti-social visitors, and if they looked familiar to him as well. If he was, and they did, why hadn't he said anything to Connor?

"Did you get anything?" he asked Greenly.

"_I got an address_."

"You did – in Bay Village? That's great, let's have it."

"_No, not for the mistress. For the lab the mystery evidence was sent to. I did some snooping around and found a shipping label."_

Connor held back a sigh. "All right, so what does that tell us?"

"_Serious shit, I can tell you that much. And they sent it Express Overnight."_

"I gotta tell you, Sean, this isn't exactly ringin' my bell. Listen, do you have any patrols down by Callaghan's Pub? There's a Caddie loitering out here, might need a little motivation to move on. I'd do it myself, but-"

"_No, no, I'll handle it. Don't you go stirring up any more shit. Chaffey and Mitchell shouldn't be too far, I'll call them. Hold on."_

The line clicked, and then picked up again a few seconds later.

"_MacManus?_"

"Duffy?"

"_Greenly's on the radio. I thought I'd catch you._" His voice sounded clipped, like he was trying to suppress his urgency.

"Is something wrong?"

"_I don't know. I just got an anonymous caller worried that one of our detectives may be processing illegally obtained evidence. When I pressed for details, she clammed up. But she asked how long a DNA blood test takes to complete. So you tell me. Is something wrong?"_

_She._ "Christ."

"_Do I want to know, Connor?"_

"Fuck. No, you really don't. How long does the testing take?"

"_Absolute minimum, three days, depending on the backlog and how much pull the guy has. More likely a week or two. The real question is: will it match anything in the database? If not, then it's just an isolated, unidentified profile. If it gets any pings, depending on circumstances—he could have just cause to bring the person in."_

"Doesn't he need permission to take a sample or swab or whatever?"

"_Technically._"

"Hold up, Tom. Looks like Chaffey and Mitchell were close after all. Caddie's clearing out."

"_You're not going to follow it, are you?"_

"Nah." He'd already pulled onto the street, memorized the shape of the taillights, and was trying to keep several car lengths behind.

"_Come on, Connor. What have you been doing the last 24 hours?"_

Connor sped up for a yellow light.

"_Goddamn it,_" Duffy said. "_Which one of you got hurt?"_

Why would it matter? He followed the Caddie up past the church in the direction of McGinty's. "Nobody's hurt," he said to Duffy. "Everything's fine."

"_Good. Then when the tests come back from the lab, I won't bother you with the results_."

The Caddie turned onto a familiar side street. They didn't seem to be headed back to North End. What other business did they have in Southie besides harassing Seamus at his pub? "Look," Connor told Duffy, "all I can say is that if Beckman's really trying to catch the bad guys, he's chasing the wrong leads. I think he could be our mole."

Duffy took a breath. "_I'd be lying if I said I hadn't considered it."_

"Good, then it's not just me."

"_I said I'd considered it, Connor. There's no proof._"

"He's a lying bastard. He's strong-arming witnesses, threatening people, hiding evidence from you, and from Smecker."

The Caddie slowed at an apartment complex, and a chill settled deep in his chest. This was Leah's place. He forced himself to hang back, not to give himself away before he could get a handle on the situation.

"_But if he's not the mole, then it's good he's taking precautions. For all he knows, the mole could be one of us. What's Beckman's motive, Connor?"_

The Caddie was creeping into a spot in the row nearest Leah's staircase. Connor took a chance and turned into the lot.

"Fuck if I know," he said, holding the phone on his ear while he steered. "Bring down the Saints single-handedly? Win at all costs?"

Leah's porch light was on, and he could see some interior lights glowing around the edges of her closed blinds. The Caddie was still idling, exhaust pluming dirty grey under the street light. The driver was watching him. Connor kept moving, weaving a slow path across to the other exit, then quickly rounded the corner to come back to the first entrance. No movement from the Caddie. The phone had slipped from his ear. He picked it up and Duffy was still talking.

"…_no different from Smecker and us before we knew you,"_ he was saying. _"Yes, Beckman's an asshole. Yes, he's crossing lines in every direction, but that's not enough. I hate to say it, but cops play dirty all the time, with the best of intentions. Look at it from the other side—if there is a mole in the department, what's _his_ motive?"_

"Money. Power. Revenge. Pick one." Connor pulled to the curb on the street just outside the lot, switching off the headlights.

"_Initially, maybe. But Martha Osborne, Yamir Kandukuri, even Scuderi – those were shots taken for self-preservation. For protection_."

"I'm not following. The Associate killed those people. And _I_ put half those bullets in Scuderi."

"_Granted. But the other half were fired to keep him quiet_."

This wasn't news, but somehow Duffy made it sound like they were on the brink of discovery. "Our Associate has a secret to keep."

"_Now you're thinking like a detective."_

"You watch your mouth."

Even Duffy's laugh had a Boston accent. There was still no movement from the Caddie, though their headlights had been off for some time. What were they doing here? Were they waiting for something? Should he bother Duffy with this? If they were only here to intimidate, like at Callaghan's…

Maybe this could be useful. Leah needed a reason to start talking. He could call her, think of a way to get her to look out the window. If the Caddie sat there long enough, she might finally call the cops herself. And Connor would be there, watching the whole time, of course.

He remembered that the binoculars they'd used earlier were still in the glove compartment. "All right then," he said to Duffy, "what sort of secret is so important that a man would kill an innocent old woman and a janitor?"

"_The million dollar question. Everyone's secrets are terribly important, to them alone. We value stability in our lives. A person's tolerance for instability can determine his willingness to break the laws of society."_

Deep stuff from Duffy. "I break the laws of society," Connor said, leaning into the passenger seat to see Leah's front porch. "Does that mean I have no tolerance for instability?" He certainly didn't have much tolerance for spying on a woman. He couldn't see much from this angle, but just pointing the lenses in her direction made him feel like a perv.

"_In a broader sense. You started your revolution to fight corruption. Corruption itself is an instability. An abuse or abomination of a moral ideal."_

This was a Duffy Connor had never known before. He sounded more like a defense attorney than an officer of the law. Connor frowned. Where the hell was this coming from?

"So now I'm an idealist," he said, adjusting the binoculars' focus to the Caddie's front seat. The two men were watching opposite entrances to the lot. The driver he'd seen before, at the funeral-the man's sunglasses were replaced by dark-framed eyeglasses now, but the skinny tie was the same. The passenger had a thick neck the same width as his jaw, sloping shoulders, and a broad nose pierced with a gold ring. He reminded Connor of a bull.

"_Don't you agree?"_ Duffy asked, surprised. "_Because I recall a certain speech you gave in a courtroom-"_

"Okay, yeah. But our mole, and this Associate—what instability are they fighting?"

"_Again, that's relative. Professional reputation is everything to some people. To others, it's the respect of family. To others, public opinion, or the opinion of just one specific person—a parent, a child, a lover…"_

"Damn, Tom. This is like talking to Smecker. No offense."

Was there a third man in the back? Maybe Connor had been spoiled by always having his brother to throw punches alongside him, but he fucking hated being outnumbered. He rolled down the dirty passenger window to get a clearer view. Cold wind rushed in, carrying with it a faint metallic rattle. This didn't feel like a simple intimidation anymore. Connor pulled on his mask. It was a weak replacement for his Beretta, sitting at home, warm and cozy and utterly useless to him right now. Like his brother.

"_You need to talk to him_," Duffy said, and for a second Connor thought he meant Murphy. "_Smecker's been like my mother-in-law ever since he saw you last."_

"He knows my number. He knows what I want." There _was_ a third man in the back of the Caddie. Connor saw the silhouette of a bent elbow, holding a phone to a rather oversized ear.

"_Hasn't Greenly given you what we have on Mancini?"_

"It's the principle, Tom. When Smecker stops talking about lettin' these guys squeal and wheel and deal, then-"

"_Then you'll kiss and make up_." Duffy sighed.

"Figuratively."

"_Have you heard the saying, 'Life is a series of adjustments'?"_ He didn't wait for a response. "_We compromise, we rationalize, and we make ethical decisions based on what we can live with."_

"Are we talking about the mole, or Smecker?"

"_We're talking about people. Very few people who break the law believe that they are choosing wrong over right. A surprising number of them believe they are justified._"

"Case in point?" He pulled on his gloves and let the LTD roll up a little closer before cutting the engine.

"_I wasn't going to be the one to say it_."

"You're a smart man, Duffy. They don't pay you enough for what you know."

"_I guess neither of us do it for the pay_."

"Listen, Tom, I might be having a problem out here. Can you find out if Chaffey and Mitchell are still-" Suddenly Connor saw all three men look to the right—to Leah's car, pulling in the lot, pulling into the space closest to her stairs. Right next to the Caddie. She wasn't inside her apartment. She was _right there_, getting out of her car…"Oh, fuck."

Connor fumbled for his door handle as the other cars' doors opened all at once. He heard her scream cut short, and saw the bag pulled roughly over her blonde head as he tore across the pavement-too slow, too late.

He rounded the back of Leah's car, skidding on gravel. The Bull had a hand over her bagged face, the other arm squeezed around her, hauling her to the Caddie's open back door. Behind him, there was a crash of metal. Aluminum cans scattered across the pavement. The backseat guy with the big ears went down, tackled from behind by a dark blur with wild hair—Leah's friend Gerard, the urban outdoorsman.

The Bull turned towards the sound, and Connor's fist flew, collapsing his windpipe. The Bull doubled over, clutching his neck, the gun in his hand tilting haphazardly at his own jaw, then at Leah.

Leah yanked the bag from her head, trying to pry herself free. Connor knuckle-punched the Bull's gun arm just below the shoulder muscle, putting all his power behind it. The gun dropped like deadweight, hitting the ground with a clatter. The Bull went for it, but Connor socked him hard in the gut, stopping him.

Beyond them, cans were getting kicked and scattered all over the ground. Big Ears struggled to get up with Gerard clinging to his back. Big Ears grunted, crushing the old man against the side of the Caddie. Wrinkled hands in dirty, fingerless gloves clenched together, hooking under the mobster's jaw.

Connor pummeled the Bull's kidneys, over and over, each connecting blow humming through his bones, from knuckles to shoulders. The release felt cathartic, despite the circumstances. Leah scrambled away, under the Caddie's open door, as the Bull finally hit his knees.

_Pzzt!_

Connor ducked into a crouch at the pop of a silencer – he'd know the sound anywhere.

_Pzzt! Pzzt!_

Orange muzzle fire flashed inside the Caddie. _The driver._

The shots kept coming as Connor snatched up the fallen gun. Something snagged his collar as he cocked it, and then Gerard was flying at him, knocking him back against the Caddie's open passenger door.

"Stop!" Leah shouted.

Incredibly, there was a beat of silence. Connor looked up from the ground, past Gerard's wild grimace to see Leah with a two-handed grip on a small silver pistol, aiming over his head, at the driver of the Caddie.

_Pzzt!_ The driver fired first.

Connor would relive the moment for years to come – the burst of golden hair in the streetlight as the bullet whizzed above her right ear, missing her perfect cheekbone by barely an inch. She flinched, squeezing off a shot that shattered the Caddie's windshield.

Somewhere in the distance voices chattered in alarm.

Strong, boney hands dug into Connor's neck through the fabric of his mask. _We're on the same side, you crazy fuck!_

He swung the gun up, hard, connecting with Gerard's skull. He rolled the old man off him and fired a slew of shots through the Caddie's passenger window. Cans rattled and doors slammed. None of his shots had hit the mark, because the engine revved and suddenly they were gone, the tires squealing as they sped away.

Leah was still clutching the silver gun. Connor's heart was thundering.

"You all right?" he asked.

She nodded, lowering the gun, opening her fingers wide as if the gun was hot to the touch—which it probably was.

Gerard had a large pistol in one hand – perhaps the one Ears had lost in the tackle. He held it low, pointed in Connor's direction.

"Not him, Gerard," Leah said, her voice shaky. "He's—he's not one of them."

"The hell he's not," Gerard muttered. "Wearing a mask like a goddamn bank robber."

"I'm a friend," Connor said. Gerard was not impressed. Connor closed the distance slowly, until the silencer on the muzzle touched his stomach. "We're on the same side, old man," he said, tilting the gun away as he took it.

Gerard's wrinkled face twisted into a scowl.

"Gerard-your head," Leah said. A dark stream was running along his hairline, into his beard. Connor felt a twinge of guilt. Leah gave Gerard a quick scan, pausing to look closely at his coat sleeve. She set the gun on the roof of her car and lifted one of his hands, making the old man wince. The fingerless glove was soaked red.

"I'm fine," he protested. He took a step and his knees gave out. Connor caught him.

"You're not fine," Leah said, ducking into her car. "Let me get my med kit."

"Inside," Connor told her. "We need to clear out of here." Leah gave him a look that might have silenced a lesser man. Connor took a step closer and made it clear this wasn't a discussion. "You need to get out of the open in case they come back."

She glanced around the dark parking lot, then at Gerard and Connor. "Okay. Can you help me get him up the stairs?" Connor collected the silver pistol, juggling all three guns in one hand while she took Gerard's other side and together they made it up to the landing. Connor flipped the porch light off with the tip of one of the guns. Gerard looked even paler in the moonlight.

Leah unlocked the door, dropped her purse on the entry table, and pulled a chair over, helping guide Gerard into it. When the old man was set, Leah's eyes met Connor's. Connor's hand met the light switches, dropping them into darkness with one swipe.

There was a moment of silence, then Connor heard another chair pulled over the carpet. A rustling as Leah sat down.

"I can't treat him in the dark."

"Then I'll be outside." Connor set two of the guns on the entry table, and shut the door behind him. He tucked the remaining gun into the back of his jeans, and then pulled off his mask. The air felt clean and cold. Connor felt exposed. He kept the mask in hand, rearranging it so that he could pull it back on in an instant.

He'd been so stupid this morning, pressing her about computer screens. Telling her he'd read about Scuderi's computer in the paper, when he knew she had every article on the subject, from every paper in the country, memorized word for word. Smecker had kept the news quiet on purpose—and Connor had just given himself away. Now she knew he had a source deep inside the department, and that was more than enough to demolish any trust. As far as she was concerned, he was on the same level as Beckman and Duffy. Except neither of them had kissed her before trying to use her to solve a case.

So here he was, keeping watch from her porch for a second time, this time with a mask and a gun. This time the enemy had come with real muscle. From what he'd seen, the Associate didn't have many others at his command. So far, he'd worked alone, or with second-rate mafiosos out on loan from Mancini. Tonight's orders had to have come from Carmen Mancini himself. Leah was out of time.

He took a breath and stood at the railing, staring down at the tipped shopping cart and scattered cans as the fight replayed in his mind. Like most fights, it was over as quickly as it had begun. How could it have gone differently? If Murphy had been with him, and they'd been armed, there'd be three more scumbags to deliver to the morgue, courtesy of the Saints of South Boston.

But Murphy wasn't here. And the gun in his waistband (he took it out and examined it) was another high-end H&K. A Mancini special.

What if he hadn't gone to Callaghan's tonight and seen that Caddie? What if he hadn't decided to follow them? They would have taken Leah, and killed Gerard.

Gerard had been a God-send. Literally. There was no doubt in his mind. But that silver pistol she'd kept from the plaza had made the real difference. One mystery was solved, and it felt wrong not calling Smecker immediately to tell him. But his phone was in the car, and Smecker…

Smecker would want to take charge. Connor would figure this one out on his own.

The bag on her head meant they'd wanted her alive, or at minimum they wanted to dump her body elsewhere. He rubbed his eyes and tried to stop the image before it came. She needed protection. At the very least, she needed a safe place to stay for tonight.

Cans clattered. He looked up quickly, but it was just the wind.

The parking lot was otherwise quiet, but he doubted it would be for long. People would have heard the commotion. Someone had to have called the cops.

And speak of the mortal devils, there was a patrol car, pulling into the lot. Christ, that was fast.

He opened the door a crack, taking stock of the progress. Leah was bandaging the old man's head where Connor had knocked him with the gun. Gerard's (previously Murphy's) peacoat was draped on the chair behind him. One bloody sleeve of his ragged shirt was rolled up, his arm bandaged neatly above the elbow. He had a half-eaten power bar in the other hand and a bottle of water in his lap. There was a plastic bag at their feet, full of bloody cloths.

Down below, the patrol car had parked, blocking the first row of spaces.

No time. Connor slipped back inside, hitting the lights.

Gerard growled weakly. "What's your problem, sonny?"

"Do you want to tell him, or should I?" Connor asked, finding his way to the dining room window that overlooked the parking lot.

"It's better for everyone, Gerard," Leah said quietly.

"Is he good to go?" Connor asked.

"Not really. He could use an IV. And a hot meal. And a warm bed."

Gerard snorted. The plastic bag crunched; Leah was cleaning up in the dark.

Connor peered out. Chaffey and Mitchell were out of their car, radios in hand, taking a great deal of interest in the upturned shopping cart and cans scattered next to Leah's car. Then they were looking at the side panels of her car, where Connor imagined a few of the driver's bullets had lodged. "Shit. You're about to have some visitors."

Leah joined him at the window. "Damn it, here they come. Gerard, don't move. And don't answer the door. You, come with me." She felt for Connor's arm and took his gloved hand, pulling him down the hall to her bedroom, where there was even less ambient light, and shut the door. She left him standing by the bed. He heard the soft puff of pillows hitting the floor, and the slide of sheets.

"Do you plan to hide me under the covers?"

"You're hiding in the bathroom. The door locks."

And when the cops request he open it, and he refuses, they'll break it easily enough. But Connor resisted pointing that out. He had no intention of letting things get that far.

There was a hard knock at the front door. Mike Chaffey's firm but youthful voice declared it was the police.

He could hear drawers opening and the rustle of fabric.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Cover story."

Another knock, louder.

"_Fosette?_" Gerard called uncertainly.

"Don't answer it. I'm coming!" she answered, just loud enough for the old man to hear.

Connor caught her as she reached for the door. "Guns. On the table by the door."

"I'll get them."

Then Connor was alone. He pressed his ear to the door.

"Mike, hi," Leah's friendly voice carried easily through the door. "And…Mitchell, right? What's up, guys?" A minute later, they had invited themselves inside, despite her semi-polite refusal. This was no good.

He felt his way to the window, going off the vague memory of when he'd checked her apartment for bad guys the last time he'd been here. The blinds popped as he looked between them, twenty feet down at a menacing thorn bush. There was no fire escape, not even a ledge or a window box. It wasn't five stories or anything, but he doubted his knee would hold up for even one, thanks to his jackass brother, and he'd have a hell of a time running to his car if he tweaked it again.

Chaffey and Mitchell were giving their spiel. Connor waited for her to tell them Gerard had come to her aid, but instead she played the uninvolved do-gooder card, giving the impression that Gerard alone had gotten hurt, and she was helping the poor man out. Fairly brilliant. Simple, and hard to disprove, as long as Gerard didn't argue.

"How'd you get hurt, sir?" Chaffey asked.

There was a long pause. Would Gerard give him away?

A raspy throat cleared. "Three of them. Three of them got me, got my cans. Spilled my cans, put a hole in my jacket-"

"Got your head pretty good, too," Chaffey said. "What did they want from you?"

Another pause. "They weren't after me," Gerard said. Leah started to speak, and he cut her off. "They waited a long time, waited for someone else. I interrupted 'em. Kicked their asses. Scared 'em off."

"There were reports of gunshots."

"Yeah, there were gunshots. See my goddamn arm?"

"Leah, did you see any of this?" Mitchell asked.

Connor could picture her shrugging. So innocent. "I just heard the noise, and when I looked it was just Gerard down there…He's going to need some stitches, and antibiotics. You guys can give him a ride to MGH, right?"

Gerard and Mitchell both started to protest.

"Sure, we can do that," Chaffey said. "It was really good of you to help him. Did you…get a look at your car?"

_Yes, yes you saw it_, Connor urged her silently.

Leah hesitated. "What do you mean?"

_Damn it_. He fumbled around the bed, stumbling over clothes and shoes. He took care of both lamps, while the cops broke the news to her.

"You need to see the damage," Chaffey said. "Three bullet holes, at least. It'll be evidence, if we catch the guys, and if Mr…Gerard wants to press charges." Gerard muttered something impolite and Chaffey appeased him. A few more exchanges about seeing the car, and then Mitchell joined in, and soon it was beginning to seem strange for Leah to keep refusing to go down and see it. Finally, she agreed.

"You're not going in bare feet, are you?" Chaffey asked. "I saw some broken glass."

Connor began to see the brilliance in destroying the perfectly made bed. He raced to the bathroom, flipping switches and pulling faucets, and locking the door just in time. He tucked himself into a corner as the voices came closer.

"I'll come with you," Chaffey said. "If you left the apartment to go down and help him, someone could have come inside. Won't hurt to check the closets and under the beds."

Leah was outside the bedroom door. "No need for that," she said loudly as she grasped the doorknob. "Just let me grab my boots."

The light switch clicked up and down. "The light's out," Chaffey said.

The hall light streamed through the doorway. "I meant to change that bulb," Leah said.

"Is someone here?" Chaffey asked. "Who's in the shower?"

"That's my…date. We were sort of…busy earlier."

"Oh. _Oh_."

Connor imagined him seeing the bed and the pile of clothes. What had she changed into? he wondered.

"I'm sorry," Chaffey said, "I didn't mean to…" His voice got quieter, but clearer. "I don't mean to get personal, but—Leah, you're important to me. I mean, your safety is important to me."

"And I really appreciate that, Mike. We can go now."

_Yeah, Mike. You can go now._

"But don't you think-" Footsteps shuffled across the room. "Don't you think he should have stayed with you? I don't know, but I don't think you should date the kind of guy that goes and takes a shower and leaves you alone with a stranger in your house."

_I owe you a beer, kid_, Connor thought. _Now get the fuck out!_

"Gerard is not a stranger."

"Something doesn't feel right, Leah. I want to talk to this guy. What's his name?"

"C-Connor."

_What?_ Connor yanked off his mask, not wanting even the knitted fabric over his ears to muffle his hearing.

Someone banged on the bathroom door. "Hello, Connor! This is the Police. Come out of the shower so we can talk, please!"

"Mitchell, oh my God! What are you trying to do?

"He's not answering," Mitchell said. And Chaffey wasn't either. He still hadn't said a word.

"He's probably freaked out!" Leah hissed. "Jeez, do you guys mind?"

"Is that the Connor I know?" Chaffey asked flatly. "MacManus?"

"I would appreciate you keeping my personal matters private. Nothing's official yet, this is the first time he's been here."

"Really. Hmm."

_Oh, this is classic. _She didn't realize the reputation she was giving herself.

"Okay, enough!" she snapped. Maybe she did realize.

"I didn't say anything."

"We're done here. Out of my room, please. I'm trusting you guys can apply your deep and abiding concern to my friend Gerard, when you take him to the ER."

"Your date still hasn't answered," Mitchell said.

"He's _showering_." Leah's boots clomped towards the front door. "Can we go now?"

"He's using all your hot water," said Chaffey. And then they were gone.

He wanted badly to follow them. Gerard was in no shape to do anything, should Chaffey and Mitchell turn out not be the honorable men they seemed. Connor fumbled to get his mask back on. It was hard to feel for the eyeholes with his gloves on.

She'd used his name. Was that some sort of subtle hint that she suspected his identity? Maybe it wasn't that subtle. Or maybe it was just the first name that came to her mind. Which would be an interesting development, considering how they'd parted ways this morning at the diner. He hadn't expected to ever be invited back into her life, much less into her bed. And he hadn't, of course. Tonight he was the Man in the Mask, the Saint. And Connor MacManus was just a cover story.

The front door opened again much sooner than he'd expected. She went straight to the bathroom door and knocked softly. "They're gone," she said.

Connor quietly slid the bedroom closet door open, but didn't come out. The hallway light was enough to burn a memory she didn't need. With the sound of the shower running, she didn't hear the closet. He watched from the shadows as she jiggled the locked bathroom doorknob.

Her hair was messy, her ponytail loosened after the speedy outfit change. She wore a faded Patriots t-shirt and-his eyes missed little, even in the very low light-nothing beneath it. Tucked into her rain boots were gray sweatpants, the ones she'd worn the morning of the paint can incident. It didn't seem a good omen, until she reached up to feel the top of the doorjamb, exposing her midriff and he saw how loose the sweats were, draping so low on her hips that he should have caught a glimpse of her panties. Except there were none to be seen.

Christ.

Oh, wait there they were—hanging from the doorknob like a holiday decoration. A dark color, possibly red, made of so little material that he really couldn't picture how they'd cover anything at all.

Talking seemed necessary all of a sudden.

He said the first thing that came to mind. "You can't stay here tonight."

She jumped, banging her elbow against the wall. "How are you in the…who's in the shower?"

"No one. Turns out I'm not the kind of guy to leave you alone with strangers in the house. You can't stay here. Is there someone you can call?"

She rubbed her elbow. "I already did."

"And?"

"I'll try them again in a few minutes." She looked at the door, jiggling the lock again. "There's no pin key for this lock—we won't be able to open it. I'll get a screwdriver."

She left to rummage in the kitchen, thoughtfully turning off the hall light when she returned. He held out a hand for the screwdriver, but she either didn't see it or ignored it. She squeezed past him, dropping to her knees in front of the bathroom and shining a pen light at the lock as she attempted to unlock it. The light bounced and danced on the knob. She made a sound of frustration, banging the side of the knob with her flashlight hand.

"Let me try," Connor said.

"I can do this."

"I know you can. But you need to get a bag packed, and I don't know where you keep your socks."

She made one last attempt, and tossed the tools on the ground.

* * *

He took over with the screwdriver, opting to do it without a light. Leah watched his shadowy movements, imagining, more than seeing, his black coat and gloves and mask, and felt the strangest sort of out-of-body awareness, like she'd somehow stepped into a Hollywood heist movie and here was the criminal mastermind, doing what he did best.

"Nice touch with the shower," she said.

"Nice touch with the door hanger."

Dang—the panties. She'd hung them there on purpose, suspecting Mike wouldn't be able to handle it. Why it burned her for _him_ to see, in the dark no less, she couldn't say. But it did. She started to reach for them, but he was working the screwdriver and seemed to be almost there.

"I don't know how to thank you. For tonight, and for that night in the plaza. You've got excellent timing."

The screwdriver stopped moving. "You think I'm stalking you."

"No, of course not."

He laughed quietly and kept working, his glove brushing the hanging panties, making them swing a little on the doorknob. Was he messing with her?

She took a breath and spit the words out. "It's just a pretty amazing coincidence that you happened to be in my parking lot at that exact moment."

"I was following their car," he said. "Mancini's hurt a lot of people, not just you. He's not going to get away with it much longer."

"I hope it happens soon. Right now, it feels like he's holding all the cards."

"Every man has a weakness. Every man has to sleep sometime, in one bed or another. Do you have a longer screwdriver?"

She went and found one in the kitchen. "Get Mancini while he's sleeping, that's your plan? Good luck, because I've heard his house is a fortress."

"Even a mob boss lets his guard down at home."

"But his guards don't. And if he's sleeping in someone else's bed, he's _not_ going to let his guard down at home."

He didn't argue, which meant he'd already thought of that.

"You don't see a way around it, because you don't know where his girlfriend lives."

He tried the new tool. "Too big," he said. "This may surprise you, but I don't actually have a fleet of surveillance vans combing the city."

"You're thinking like a cop."

He stood up. "If I was thinking like a cop, I'd kick this door in."

"You need to think like a jealous wife," she said, "or a guilty husband. Are you married?"

He handed the screwdriver back to her. "No."

"Girlfriend?" The word was out before she could stop it.

He took a breath that sounded like exasperation. "Do you have an ice pick? Or a pen?"

"I have a needle," she said, not wanting to find out what would happen if she pushed him too hard.

She could give him the lead he needed. All she had to do was write down the name and address. He didn't even have to know where it came from. Her heart hammered at the thought of lying to him if he asked.

She retrieved the med bag from the living room, and the guns as well, tripping twice in her rain boots as she felt her way back in the dark.

A Saint was in her bedroom. She'd just lied to the police in order to hide him. And now she had to call Connor and tell him that if the police ask, they're sleeping together.

She kicked off her boots, into the closet, losing her balance in the process and dropping the med bag and guns.

"You all right?" he asked.

"I'm _fine_." She hadn't been shot. She hadn't been kidnapped. Gerard had been shot, and beaten, but he was alive and would have a warm bed tonight. And there was a dangerous man in her room who'd developed a habit of _saving_ her.

She wiped her eyes on the edge of the sheet hanging off the bed, and sensed his shadow moving towards her.

He kicked the guns as he approached, and he stopped, picking them up and laying them on the bed one by one. He took her hand and pressed something into it—a gun? No, her phone. Somehow it too slipped right through her hands, onto the floor.

"Jesus Christ!" she swore. What was wrong with her? She felt sick. She couldn't see her fingers. She raised them to her cheek and felt them vibrate against her skin.

"You're coming down off the rush," he said. "Makes it hard to do things, small movements."

"This shouldn't be happening. I run on adrenaline all day."

"You don't get your life threatened every day."

"Yeah, only every other."

"It's not the same as your work. You're not trained to handle violence."

"You seem to be. What are you, ex-military?" She regretted the question as soon as she asked it, even before she heard him reach for the guns on the bed. There was the scrape of metal on metal, something fierce and purposeful and authoritative—nothing that was helping her heart rate to come down.

"I'm sorry, that was stupid of me to ask," she said quietly. "I was just wondering how a person like you copes with it all."

"I punch something," he said, surprising her. "I go to bar and get in a fight. That, or get laid. Usually a fight. The aftermath is more…straight-forward. "

"You should try running. There is no aftermath."

"It's not quite as satisfying." There was the pull of a zipper. Her heart banged against her ribcage. "Where are the needles?" he asked. He had the med bag.

"Main pocket, individually wrapped. Try the 14 gauge, in the orange wrapper."

The pen light switched on—he was crouched by the bathroom door. She heard the peel of the plastic.

"Careful," she couldn't help saying. "I can do that if you want."

"Not with those shaky hands," he said. "Pack your bag."

Despite her irritation at being ordered around (or perhaps because of it), the reality of the situation started to sink in, and she found herself fighting off angry tears. She pulled her duffle bag from under her bed and conjured her mental packing checklist. Thirteen items from two drawers, the closet, and the bathroom. She retrieved the majority, and then there was nothing left but the bathroom stuff. She sat on the edge of the bed and watched him in the moonlight. Her eyes were fully adjusted now, and no matter how dark it was, in the city, even with the blinds closed, the dark was rarely absolute.

She knew he was average height, about six inches taller than her, with a medium build, as far as she could tell. He'd only ever been in a peacoat when she'd seen him. He was strong, and bold, and she got the feeling that half the time he wanted to rip off that mask.

Most of her memories of him had been made in the dark, and were vague, which for her was saying a lot. But tonight her brain had taken a picture of him, in that half a second before he'd turned off the living room lights. He'd stepped in and looked right at her, with such an intensity that it was almost a relief when he knocked them into darkness.

He was like a force of nature, and it felt incredibly weird to have him trapped here in her little apartment. He wouldn't leave until he knew she was safe. It should have been comforting.

She cleared her throat. "Do you want some coffee, or water or anything?"

He shifted, rubbing the mask on the back of his neck. "No thanks."

"Food? There's some leftover chicken in the fridge."

"Did your friend call back?" It wasn't quite impatience in his voice. More like irritation that she had such unreliable friends.

"Not yet."

"Try them again."

She did, cursing and hanging up when it went to voicemail again.

_Vitamins_, she remembered. Would a few days' worth be enough? Or would it be weeks, or longer even before she could feel safe at home again? Where in God's name would she stay for that long? Would she have to move around? Stop working? Disappear? She made the decision on her way to the kitchen, not that it was a great epiphany. This had to end, of course it did. She would help him do it.

She used the microwave light, and took her time so her shaky handwriting would be legible.

"Still no answer?" he asked when she returned.

"It hasn't been that long." But she knew it had.

"You have other friends, Leah. I know you do. What about that Connor MacManus? I heard what you told the cops earlier."

Something about the way he said Connor's name – the other words had no accent, but the name sounded Irish. It was the way Connor might say his own name. She thought of the pub last night, what Annie had told her about the owner, and their mutual friends.

"You heard me give the cops a reason not to search my apartment," she said carefully. "Connor's was the first name I thought of that Chaffey would believe. It didn't mean anything."

He didn't answer. Maybe she'd overdone it with the denial. The shower water pounded in the background. The needle scraped in the lock.

_Click._

In a matter of seconds, he'd popped the lock, reached around to switch off the light, and turned off the shower.

The silence was sudden, and when she heard his footsteps start to come out of the bathroom, she realized she was blocking the door. They bumped and he caught her, gloved hands leaving a burning imprint on her hips through the thin cotton. Maybe it was her imagination, but he didn't let go right away.

"We're going," he said, his arms hard as he pulled away. "I don't care if I have to drive you to your father's house blindfolded."

"Here," she said, holding out the note to him.

"You're _not_ staying here."

"No, _here_. Take this, please. It'll help you find what you need." She found his hand and put the note in it, then knelt and found the pen light at his feet. She shined it on the paper, accidentally pointing it too high at first. He pushed the light down quickly.

"Giovanni's Flowers," he read.

"Are you hurt?" she asked. It had looked like blood on his neck.

He took the light from her hand. "What's Giovanni's Flowers?"

She took a breath. "There's probably fifty florist shops in the city," she said. "But this one did all the arrangements for Leo Buffone's funeral. I'm guessing it also has delivery records to Mrs. Mancini. If you can find that account, you might find another delivery address-"

"For a woman in Bay Village," he said. Then he whispered something that might have been a prayer. A hand found hers. "Leah, you're a gift from God."

"I could say the same. I would, if there was anyone to say it to."

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.

"What are the numbers at the bottom, after the phone number?"

Her thundering heart seemed to be affecting her voice. The back of her hand burned like it had been branded.

He lit up the paper again, pointing with a gloved finger to the numbers he meant.

She stared down at the paper. Something was happening here, something she couldn't explain. She could not lie to him.

"Account numbers, I think," she said finally. "They came with the address. You don't have a surveillance team, but maybe you have a way to trace them."

The light shut off. "You saw this on Scuderi's computer."

She did not move away from him—she did not move at all. She closed her eyes and braced herself for the aftermath.

"How many more names were there?"

"I don't know. A lot."

"Give me an estimate."

"I just want to help you," she whispered. "You're the only ones who can end this. It's the only way for me to-"

"For you to be safe? Leah, listen to me. You know what I do. The Yakavettas, the Mancinis…I don't intend to stop until the job is done. When that happens-you still won't be safe."

She sat on the edge of the bed and closed her eyes.

"Your secret gives you power," he said, "whether you want it or not. It also paints a big, bright Santa Claus-red target on your back, because all those names on that list—there's no telling what they'll do to shut you up."

"They're not all bad."

The weight on the bed shifted; he'd sat down next to her. "Why do you say that? These are people who have partnered with the mafia—they're as corrupt as they come."

"Some are, but some I think are just…people caught in the wrong place at the wrong time."

He scoffed, and it stung her more than any words he could have said. "You're smarter than this, Leah."

"And you're _better _than this. Not everything is black and white. You can't expect it to be."

"Is this what they all looked like?" he asked, lighting up the Post-it again. "Names, address, phone, account numbers, that's it?"

"Yes."

"Nothing about the nature of their dirty little secrets?"

"No."

"Christ," he said. The light switched off. "You know someone on the list. Someone you think is an exception. Who is it? What do they have on him?"

She stood, unable to hold it together when he was slicing so close to the truth.

"How could I ask? Nobody knows that I saw the list," she said. "Except you."

He sighed. "And you trust me."

"You're the only one who hasn't let me down."

"That's a pretty harsh judgment of everyone else."

"Says the vigilante."

"Okay, you got me there."

"Do you trust me?" she asked.

"With my life."

Her heart skipped a beat. "But not with your name. Or your face."

"Or my blood, no. You know it's for your protection."

"It's the same for the list – I'm holding on to it for _their_ protection."

"I should stop interfering, then. I was under the impression you wanted to live." His voice came from above now; he'd stood up. It was strange to face off with someone in the dark. She couldn't see his face, and she didn't know him well enough to always read the serious from the sarcasm in his voice.

"You don't know any more about these people than I do. I mean, I appreciate all your help-you've no idea how much. But whom I tell, and when, is my choice, not yours, not anyone else's. I'm sorry."

"It is your choice. And it's your duty. Or is that uniform just for show?"

"You have some nerve."

"So do you. Extortion is the mob's biggest gig. Once my partner and I take care of the major players, the police are going to need help rooting out the weeds—the corruption that's not as visible. Your list will be _vital_."

"It's not _my_ list, and it's not that simple. How do I know who's safe to talk to? Do _you_ know who the mole is?"

"I could tell you who it's not."

"That's not good enough. If I confess to the wrong person, if the mole leaks it…" She leaned on the dresser and squeezed her temples with both hands. "I can't take that chance. I _can't_, do you get that? It's safer to keep it quiet."

"You cannot possibly be that naïve. With that camera behind your eyes? It's _never_ been safe, and it's sure as fuck never been quiet."

"Some of the police suspect what I saw," she admitted, "but they can't prove anything."

"Christ. Do ye think that matters?" He took a breath. "Suspicion is enough. _Rumor_ is enough. My God, you've had two attacks at your fucking home—do you think anyone cares about proof?"

"How did you know there were two? Nobody knew except…Is Tom Duffy your contact? Or was it a MacManus who told you?"

He was quiet for a beat. "You still need to give Connor a heads up about your cover."

"Who the hell do you think I've been calling all night? He's not _answering_."

Silence. She found her bag and started to zip it up, and then remembered what she was wearing. The clothes she'd changed out of were still in a pile by the closet.

"Yes, I have friends," she said, pushing past him and finding the pile with her feet. "People I care about. What if those men follow me? Would you do that to the people _you_ love? Would you bring these awful men, these monsters, to a friend's door? To your family? I don't know about you, but I can't. I couldn't live with myself." She slid down her sweats and found her jeans. "Could you hand me my underwear?"

"Jesus….Here."

"Maybe it's not an issue for you. Maybe your friends are all armed and dangerous, too."

"I have friends anywhere and everywhere. One in particular, works for the city. Did me a big favor last night, turning on a siren. I never did say thanks."

"Don't be too grateful," she said. "It was as much to piss off Detective Beckman as it was to save your ass. What were you doing there? I heard gunshots-forget I asked. Sorry."

"It's all right." There was the sound of something dragging across the bed—her bag. It knocked against the pistols and he stopped, picking them up. "I heard gunshots, too, driving away from the plaza that night. I thought it was backfire, but…" He pulled one of the zippers on her bag. "Your gun's in there, tucked in your clothes. You have extra ammo?"

"No."

"Get some. Google how to clean it. You take it with you everywhere until this is over, you got it?"

"Okay."

"They found where you dumped it, you know. That fancy laptop in the trash bin, all shot up right through the briefcase."

That's what Connor had been talking about. Which meant these two men either had the same police contacts—or they were in contact themselves. A wave of uneasiness passed through her, and she braced a hand on the bed. "I didn't know what else to do. I wanted to erase it. I've never wanted anything more in my life."

"It's going to be over soon. I'm going to take you to a place where you'll be safe for a few days."

"Where?"

"A safe house. I'll try to get you an unmarked escort whenever you leave, and as long as you're at work, they can follow you on the radio."

"You're leaving me with your cop friends?"

"You can trust them. Duffy's a good man."

"_Duffy?_ Duffy was _on the list_!"

No response.

Then, after an endless moment, the quiet sound of a leather glove sliding over a knit mask.

She found the shoulder strap of her bag and picked it up. "What is it with you people and your undying love for that man?"

She heard the bed strain with his weight.

"_Tom_ Duffy?"

"Yes. From Southie. Of the South Boston Police Department. Name, address, phone, it all checked out. Believe me, I checked."

"That can't be right."

"You know what? Just go. I'm tired of repeating myself. I appreciate your help again, but I think I'll take it from here for tonight."

"Maybe you're right. Maybe this list isn't what we think it is."

"Or maybe your friends aren't who you think _they_ are." She found her way to the living room. "Are you coming?"

"Where are you going to go?"

"Somewhere I can turn on the lights."

"Leah."

"I'll go to the station, all right? I'll sleep on the station couch. Ortie's on duty."

"I'll follow you, make sure you get there all right."

She sighed. "Okay. Thank you."

* * *

When Connor got home, Murphy was already asleep.

The iron was out, and bloody.

* * *

.

.


	39. Chapter 39

[Chapter 39]

Murphy awoke to the squeal and crash of the garbage truck, sounds that always reminded him of being forced to his knees with a gun to his head…followed by the vision of a falling toilet and Connor's flailing legs.

The thought of the toilet caused a pang in his bladder, and he rolled out of bed. The whiskey hadn't done much to kill the pain last night. This morning his head throbbed along with his leg—partly the liquor but more likely from being kicked in the fucking head.

He stood slowly, testing the tightness of his injured skin, making sure it wouldn't crack. He'd tried to make it as clean (and small) as possible, but once that hot iron had touched his broken skin, all his focus had turned to staying conscious long enough to finish the job and not burn down the apartment.

The bathroom door was closed, and the shower running. Connor had come home.

Murphy went in the bathroom and took a piss. There was a slight pause in the rhythm of the shower spray and Murphy knew that Connor had heard him.

Steam floated over the curtain, and Connor cleared his throat. "How's the leg?"

Murphy flushed the toilet and left the bathroom door open behind him. Connor turned the water off, mumbling curses.

Murphy found some breakfast, feeling like it was his last meal. In a few minutes, Connor would lay it all out for him: Annie had given him up. Or at least, his blood. With good intentions that paved a fine road for them both, she'd turned over his DNA to Beckman. The over-eager prick would use it to finagle a judge into granting a warrant to search Callaghan's, where they'd have a field day with their little black-lights, arrest Seamus and probably Rhonwen, too. He and Connor would be next-associated, implicated. They'd end up in a federal penn. Maybe get their father's old cell. Their mission, their purpose, their lives—over. Unfinished.

As soon as Connor cleared out, Murphy got in the shower, the desire to delay the inevitable pow-wow a greater motivator than the guarantee of hot water.

The shower was fucking cold. The delay was hardly worth it. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he heard Connor in the next room on the phone. It took several seconds to wrap his mind around it, but his brother was actually _apologizing_ to someone. From the tone of his voice, it was a woman. It wasn't a stretch to guess who.

Murphy found him at the dining room table, running a hand through his hair. "Was that Leah?" Murphy asked.

A second's pause. "Aye."

"Is that where you went last night?"

Connor scratched at a scab on his neck that looked new. "Among other places. Don't get your panties in a twist. It wasn't a social visit."

"Are you sure? That's a nice hickie."

Connor looked at his red-smudged fingertips. "Just a graze."

"As in bullet graze?"

Connor went to the kitchen to rinse off his hand.

This was fucking ridiculous. Murphy stalked to his room to find clothes, refusing to beg for information. Connor wanted him to spew every dirty detail of his time with Annie, but Connor comes home bleeding and Murphy gets nothing. Typical.

He was pulling on a shirt when Connor came in and sat on the bed, holding a paper towel on his neck.

"What the fuck, Con?"

"It's a long story."

Murphy leaned against the dresser, crossing his arms over his chest. "Well, I'm all fucking ears."

Connor took a breath and gave him the rundown, from the attack, to hiding from the cops, to Leah's list revelation.

"Fuck."

"I know."

"I mean—_fuck_. She's absolutely sure it was Duffy's name?"

"Not a shred of doubt. Makes sense now, why she's never trusted him. There's no way of knowing what he's done, what he's got himself into to be on that list."

"We could ask him."

"What if he's too far gone for that? What if he gives us up to the family – or to the fucking cops? The rest of them, I mean. What if he's loyal to Mancini?"

"Oh, give me a fucking break, Connor. We're not even going to go there, because you don't believe that and neither do I."

"I don't _want _to. But we have to deal with this, Murph. It's shit, but it's fucking _true_. It's real."

Murphy bandaged his leg loosely, mostly to protect it from his jeans, and tried to picture Duffy working with the mafia. It didn't compute. In his mind, it was like a bad movie – almost laughable. He tried to make himself believe it. Duffy hated the mob.

"Do you think Jake was on the list?" he asked. "He would be, if it includes people who used to pay protection to Yakavetta."

"I don't know. She didn't mention him."

"Well, can we ask her? That would tell us something, at least. It would tell us whether the people are willing, or if they might have been coerced."

"That's a good point," Connor said with a sigh. "But we can't call her from this number."

"Why? You just hung up with her. And you got her talking about the list. It's actually a good bit of progress you've made. Surprisingly enough."

"Yeah, well, it's not that simple. She doesn't really _know_ that I know she knows the list."

"_What_?"

"I was in the mask! The whole time I was up in her apartment, we were feeling around in the dark."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Feeling our way around the _apartment_, so she wouldn't commit me to memory. Jesus, give me some credit."

"I was. Apparently, too much."

"It's not like it didn't cross my mind. I focused on the mission. Some of us can manage it."

Murphy pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes. "Dear fucking Lord, I feel like we're in one of your _telenovelas_. You should have just taken those fuckers down and split the scene. In and out."

"Fuck. You. I had no gun."

"You brought home two!"

"I had no _partner_."

Murphy stared at him. "That was your choice."

Connor scratched his neck, raising his eyebrows with that infuriating _whatever_ expression. Unbelievable—and yet so typical Murphy was stupid to be surprised. His brother had always had a convenient blindness to the consequences of his own actions, while he kept busy trying to control everyone else's.

Murphy went to the living room. His boots were by the door. He kicked them over to the table and dropped into a chair to tug them on. This wasn't the time to finish this fight. It would have to wait, because their enemies sure as hell wouldn't.

The iron sat before him on the table where he'd left it, a smear of blackened blood at the tip mocking his definition of _enemies_.

Connor came up the hallway. "If I hadn't stayed—if I hadn't gone up to her apartment, I never would have found out about the list."

"Well, you have to figure out a way to ask her. Call her from a blocked number, pass her a note in class, whatever. We have to know if he's safe to work with, before tonight."

"She's working all day. We won't have time, Murphy. We have still have a lot of recon to do."

"I thought you got us help with the recon."

Connor shook his head. "Location only." He came over to the table, not sitting down but hooking his thumbs in his belt loops. "I've been thinking about this all night, Murph-we're going have to do this one alone. As much as I hate to say it, until we know for sure, we have to assume the worst. He could use anything against us – anything we tell him about our plans, and anything he learns from the others. We can't exactly tell the rest of the team that he's out, without alerting him that we know."

"Shit."

"I know. I was really counting on the back-up, but it's going to have to be old-school. You and me. And, you know..." He glanced upward, not needing to complete the thought aloud.

They both made signs of the cross. Connor gave a half-smirk and tapped out and lit two cigarettes, offering one to Murphy.

Swallowing so much pride that he nearly choked on it, Murphy took it. "Thanks. I was out."

"I know. Figured you would be, after yesterday."

Meaning after _Annie_. Murphy inhaled deeply. If he crushed this smoke in his fist, how far would he be able to shove it down Connor's throat? He would not, he _would not_ ask whether Connor had been able to talk to her last night.

"I never did get a hold of her," Connor said between puffs. "She didn't return my calls to the shop, and of course, she didn't have this." He produced her cell phone and laid it on the table in front of the iron.

Murphy gave an ambiguous grunt. That's right, Connor had gone to see Seamus, too. Busy night. He had the immediate urge to check the phone for recent contact with Beckman, but something was stopping him. He wasn't sure why, but it felt like bait. Connor was clearly waiting for him to take it. Sitting back in his chair, Murphy smoked slowly, puffing circles up into the air, trying to ignore the way the air was growing heavier between them.

"You shouldn't have done it alone," Connor said. He was looking at the iron, and the evidence of Murphy's pain tarnishing the point.

"Didn't have much choice, did I?"

Connor rubbed a hand over his mouth. Murphy concentrated his gaze on the iron. He licked his thumb and rubbed the blood off, suddenly hating the sight of it.

"It doesn't matter what Annie says. The fact is, Beckman's got your blood, even if he doesn't know it's yours. If he gets another sample, or a warrant to search Callaghan's, or if he matches it to anything from any other crime scene-"

"I _know_, Con. I fucking know. And I did learn something useful to the mission—you remember how the cops think Frankie's murder was unrelated? Well, it's not. There were pennies on his eyes when Annie found him. Someone tried to pin it on the Saints. Copycat, just like that janitor at Scuderi's office."

"She hid the pennies from the police?"

Remarkable how quickly the wind in his sails died down when Connor put it like that. "Aye," he said. "Off Vigoda too. Couldn't stand the idea of the Saints getting free press."

Connor pushed his chair back and went to the kitchen. He came back with paper towels and glass cleaner, and cleaned off the iron. Then he handed the damp paper towel to Murphy. Expectantly.

With as much _fuck you_ as he could pack into a single gesture, Murphy wiped off his thumb.

.

.

* * *

From under cover of a thinning maple on the shady side of the street, Smecker watched Greenly and Dolly exit the small florist shop and get into their unmarked patrol car. When they pulled out, he followed, waiting until they had made a few turns before riding their bumper. They pulled over in a bank parking lot. Smecker pulled his car alongside.

"Get in," he told them.

Greenly got in the passenger seat. Dolly got in the back. They were not particularly quick about it. Reluctant. Not exactly contrite.

It probably seemed like an interrogation mind game that Smecker initially kept silent. In truth, he was keeping control of his outrage by a very thin thread, and needed a moment to organize his emotions into rational thought.

Greenly shifted around, rolling his neck. Twitching.

In the rearview, Dolly met Smecker's gaze steadily. Then he looked out the window at the patrol car.

"I can explain," Greenly said.

"Yes, you will," Smecker said. "But we've got a team meeting in twenty minutes, and as much as I love to be a thorn in Beckman's side, we're not going to saunter in as a tardy threesome and give him any more reason to put us under his little I Spy microscope. So why don't you cut to the bottom line?"

"MacManus boys are planning to hit the Man at his mistress's townhome."

"The location of which I will assume you have just acquired for them."

Greenly shifted again, removing his cell phone from his pocket and turning it over slowly in his hands.

"Who else knows about this?" Smecker asked.

"Nobody. They, uh, asked me to keep it quiet."

Smecker raised his eyes to Dolly in the back seat.

"I needed Dolly to finesse the flower lady," Greenly explained.

"And Duffy?"

In the backseat, Dolly cleared his throat. "We needed him to cover in case we were late gettin' back."

Greenly slouched like he wanted to sink through the seat.

"I see. So, the entire team except for me." Both men looked at their laps, and Smecker tried not to notice the stab in his chest that grew sharper the longer the silence stretched. "Have you given th-them the address yet?" He cleared his throat, embarrassed at the stutter. He'd almost said _the boys_, but it now sounded so much like an endearment that the term wouldn't flow from his lips. Not when he felt…like this.

Dolly shook his head. "Got photos of the delivery records. We still need to narrow it down."

"May I take a look?"

Greenly pulled up the photos on his phone and handed it over. There was no hesitation—a small, probably unconscious gesture that relieved a fraction of the pressure in Smecker's chest.

He spread his fingertips to zoom in on the first photo, then scrolled to a second, third and fourth. Each page held two columns of hand-written addresses, about ten per page. The account was identified by a simple notation of the name _C. Mancini_ in the upper corners of the pages. Years of service on the Organized Crime task force had made many of the names familiar.

"We can eliminate the funeral homes and cemeteries and hospitals," Greenly said.

"This must be why they made you a detective," Smecker said.

"You can see several are families of recently deceased associates and…others," Dolly said. He cracked a piece of Nicorette gum from its bubble packaging. "Then there's his mother, his own wife at their estate, a few local churches…Looked like only a dozen are real possibilities."

"Only five, actually," Greenly said. Smecker raised a single eyebrow and Greenly twitched guiltily, adding, "They're pretty sure she's in Bay Village."

Which meant they were entirely sure she was in Bay Village. Another painfully acquired piece of the puzzle, no doubt, and another Saints endeavor they'd purposefully kept hidden from him.

Greenly shifted, banging his elbow on the door. He was like a child caught between feuding parents, loyal to both, fearing the disappointment of each. And if Greenly was the child, then that made Smecker—what?

He abandoned the analogy.

"I know five don't sound like that many, sir," Greenly said, "but only one of them's right. You know how important it is that we find it. And, you know, _soon_."

"No, Greenly, I'm afraid I don't know. How important is it?"

Greenly's twitching stilled. "Leah was attacked coming home to her apartment last night. Mancini's problem solvers—Connor ran them off, but he said it was close."

"Fuck. Where is she now?"

"She's staying at work for now, at the medic station."

"Not with Connor?"

"Yeah…that's where it gets a little complicated. He didn't save her _as_ Connor-"

"What do you mean? He didn't-"

"Oh, yeah he did. He's got a whole Batman versus Bruce Wayne thing going on. As of now, she doesn't know _Connor_ was involved."

They all processed that for a moment. "So, officially, _we_ can't know that it was Connor either," Smecker said. "Beckman can't know. And, what the fuck—_I_ can't know?"

"No, I was going to tell you-"

"Don't fucking start," Smecker said, lighting a cigarette. "Fuck. We should've secured Leah a week ago. She should've been in protective custody before Scuderi even hit the morgue. She's the key—we know it, the Associate knows it, and apparently Mancini knows it now, too. Makes you wonder who's running the show – Mancini or the Associate?" He sighed, somewhat enjoying the way Greenly squinted and blinked in the wave of smoke. "When's it going down?"

"Don't know. I asked, but Connor wouldn't give me a straight answer. I get the feeling…" He glanced at Dolly. "Sir, I get the feeling they're shutting us out."

Smecker rolled his smoke slowly between thumb and forefinger. "Really. Being used for intel, but being left out of the take down. What's that feel like, Greenly?"

Greenly started twitching again.

"If you ask me, it's going to be tonight," Dolly said. "With that evidence Beckman found, and Leah getting attacked—they've got to be feeling like they're running out of time."

"They are."

"So what are we going to do?" Dolly asked.

Smecker finished his cigarette.

He picked up Greenly's phone again and woke up the screen, identifying the Bay Village addresses that weren't funeral homes, cemeteries, hospitals, or immediate family members. Greenly had narrowed it down to five, but Greenly didn't have the background or encyclopedic knowledge that Smecker did.

Smecker kept scrolling through, only for effect now, warring within himself whether to share what he knew.

The addresses must have been added in the order that the flower deliveries had occurred, rather than alphabetically or geographically, which might explain why the Church of St. Augustine in South Boston was listed above one of the Bay Village orders.

There was no stopping it—his mind traveled back to the first time he'd stumbled, drunk and tormented, through those heavy doors. He felt like he was still there.

How much did he believe in this cause?

How much did he want to see this thing, this dangerous, uncertain, impossible thing, through to its likely devastating end—with or without the Saints' blessing?

Smecker stared unseeing at the photo on the phone, enveloped in an overwhelming sense that he was at a very important crossroads.

"Sir?" Greenly's voice cut through. "If you don't want Beckman waiting on us in your office, like you said-"

"Get going," Smecker said, quickly transferring to his own phone the third photo—the only one that mattered. "We'll talk about this after the meeting." He tossed Greenly's phone back to him. "Well, go on, this isn't a carpool!"

.

.

* * *

_[One Eyed Jake's Tattoos__]_

"Are you going to get that, or just listen it to it ring all morning?" Zeke's annoyed voice floated from inside the piercing display case.

Annie checked the time on the autoclave. Fourteen minutes until the end of the sterilization cycle. "You guys never answer it before business hours."

"Yeah, because Jake and I don't _live_ here."

The phone kept ringing. Jake shouted from his curtained work station, "We love you, Annie, but no one gives a shit about your drama-answer that goddamn phone or fucking unplug it!"

Annie stalked over and reached for the cord, unable to stop herself from checking the caller ID first. Not recognizing the number, she sank with an emotion that should have been relief.

Zeke watched her, and she ignored him.

"You going to tell me what's going on?"

"I wasn't planning on it."

"Come on. Share. I care about your drama."

"You care about Kat Von D. My drama, you can't handle."

From behind Jake's curtain came a grunt that sounded like laughter. Annie stared at the autoclave. Zeke came over and stood beside her, copying her gaze with exaggerated sullenness.

"A watched autoclave never boils, you know," he told her.

"It's not supposed to boil."

"Same dif."

"I should be at work."

"You are at work. And may I say, doing a fine ass job, avoiding your man issues and preventing the spread of hepatitis."

The clock overhead ticked. Slowly, Annie turned from the machine to stare at Zeke.

He chuckled to himself, his lip piercings taut against his teeth. "I didn't really mean that the way it sounded."

"I know. That's why your balls are still intact."

There was a knock on the glass, and they both looked up to see the blonde and black striped hair of his first appointment.

Annie pushed him away. "Go poke some cartilage."

Zeke opened the door for the girl, turning the sign to OPEN.

Annie reluctantly plugged the phone back in.

Five minutes later, it still hadn't rung.

The door opened and her heart sprang into her throat. It was Beckman. He wore a striped navy polo shirt under a tan suit, looking like he was about to untether his yacht for a sail.

He took a moment to remove, fold, and tuck away his sunglasses with deliberate slowness.

"I've been trying to reach you," he said.

A thousand thoughts sprang to mind of what he wanted, each worse than the one before.

"I lost my phone again. And this one's not working." _Stupid. He's an asshole, not a moron._

He walked over to the phone on the counter and pressed the button. She could hear the perfectly functioning dial tone from where she sat.

"You're ignoring my calls," he said, turning it off. "You're upset with me because of yesterday."

Twisting her hair up with a clip, she glanced around the shop. Faint giggles were coming from Zeke's piercing room. Jake's curtain was half-closed. It was too early for the buzzing of the tattoo gun to carry throughout the shop. And Beckman's voice tended to carry.

The detective's gaze followed hers, and then drifted up to the gothic artwork on the wall next to him, a writhing pit of tortured souls and skeletons. "I apologize," he said. "I shouldn't have taken all of that out on you."

She waited for him to go on, but that was apparently all she was going to get, as he flashed her a wide smile.

"I was wondering if you're free tonight," he said. There was a glint in his eye. "Don't you usually work on Wednesday?"

"Are you going to pretend you don't know?"

He rested an elbow on the counter casually. "No. I am surprised, though. That you accepted the suspension without contest indicates that you agree with their reasons."

"I need a break, Josh."

His expression turned serious. "I told you, you shouldn't have gone chasing down that alley."

"Apparently that's what Leah thinks too. Both of you came out on top for this one."

"I doubt Leah's overly happy about it. It's not going to help her reputation – getting one partner nearly killed, then getting the next one suspended…"

Annie stared. "I'm glad you're getting so much enjoyment out of this."

"Me? My stakeout blown, my suspects lost…"

"You still got what you wanted." Would he confirm that he was running DNA tests from the blood on the pen?

He looked at her directly, revealing nothing of his thoughts. "I'm still wondering if you're free tonight."

The autoclave clicked, and she turned to it gratefully. The machine had finished its cycle, but it would need several minutes to cool down before it could be safely opened and the tools removed.

"Sorry, I'm busy. Jake needs me here." She busied herself retrieving the heat gloves from a drawer.

"I see. Well…" Beckman rapped his fingers on the counter briefly. "As it so happens, I was calling to talk to your uncle this morning. Is he here?"

Shifting into defensive mode, she moved ungracefully to block him. "What the hell are you doing here, Josh?"

She'd stepped into his personal space. He moved closer, rising to his full height, which was considerably taller than hers. "My job."

Jake's curtain slid back, and he stepped, hulking, out of his workroom. The devil horns on his scalp seemed to grow as he looked them over.

"Is there a problem?" he asked. Annie returned to where she'd been standing at the counter, making sure to take her time.

Beckman didn't skip a beat. "Not at all. I need to talk to you about Frankie Hayes."

"I answered your questions. If there's anything else that comes to mind, I'll let you know."

"I'm afraid these are new questions. There's been some development in the case."

"Oh?" He'd said nothing to Annie about it.

Jake crossed his muscular arms.

"Some information surfaced just this morning," Beckman continued, "and it's caused a major change in our view on motive. Naturally, that raises a whole new string of questions for those closest to the victim. My car's just ouside. There's no need for you to drive yourself."

Jake shifted, his size 13 boots creaking on the tile floor. "You want to take me to a police station, right now?"

"We can talk here if you prefer. Frankie's mother Janice mentioned that you'd be busy, but she thought earlier might be the best time to catch you."

Jake closed his eyes, then raised them to the front window when a car parked at the curb outside. "Excuse me," he said, leaving them to greet the client that was just arriving. He rubbed a hand over his bald dome as he walked.

"That was low," Annie told Beckman. "Even for you. What's this 'recent development' that's suddenly so critical?"

"Evidence tampering is always critical, Annie."

It felt like someone had stepped on her chest. He couldn't know about the pennies. Could he? She made the mistake of meeting his eyes, which locked on hers with such hardness that whatever she was going to say died on her lips.

How on earth had he found out?

He leaned over her, his voice quietly ominous in her ear. "Obstruction of justice, interfering in a federal investigation, multiple offenses in a connected string of violent homicides…the state will charge the felony, with sentencing as a repeat offender."

She couldn't attempt a denial. The best she could do was to shake her head in vague dissention while her hands fumbled for a task to complete, to keep busy. She reached for the autoclave and turned the handle, managing not to cry out as a burst of steam escaped, hot on her hand.

"Careful, we don't want you to get burned." Beckman said, picking up the heat gloves and examining them. "Is this sinking in, Annie? Would you like to know the probable jail time?"

Her pulse pounded in her ears. The words were sinking in, like a toxic spill filling the cracks of the sidewalk.

"Just tell me what you want," she whispered.

"I _want_ you come with me tonight. I have a need for a particular type of assistance."

Repulsed by the arrogance, she snatched the gloves from him. "Trying to provoke another violent homicide, are you?"

"Refuse me if you want. I'll bring your uncle in for questioning – for which I have every right—and when he's in that cold, concrete room, I'll explain to him just exactly how deep this hole is that you've dug for yourself. I'm willing to bet he'd do just about anything to save your darling little ass, wouldn't he?"

Fury burned behind her eyes.

"Have you heard what it's like in a women's prison, Annie? I'll bet your uncle has. I'll bet he'd be happy to assist me this evening, if it would keep you out of a place like that. You are my first choice, of course, but with your overlapping social circles—he'll do as well."

"Fine," she whispered.

"What was that?"

"I'll go with you. Just leave Jake out of it."

Beckman smiled. "It's a date, then. I'll pick you up at seven. Oh, and wear something dark." He sauntered to the exit, stopping to shake Jake's hand and tell him that he'd be in touch to schedule a convenient time to talk.

* * *

A/N: I promise more action in the coming chapters! We have lots more drama ahead of us...


	40. The Hit

**[Chapter 40: The Hit]**

Leah logged her time card and began the station duties for her overtime shift, plucking an unsuspecting bottle of Windex from the car wash rack to accompany her equipment checks. She checked, sprayed, and wiped, checked, sprayed, and wiped, feeling better and better as her arm began to ache.

"Back off," a deep voice boomed through the ambulance bay. "I already showered."

Leah smiled. "Morning, Ortie."

He lumbered between the ambulances, resting his hulking mass against the door she'd just cleaned. "I'm surprised you took station seven for tonight. It's Wednesday. Street festival night."

"That's mostly Eight's response area."

"Yeah, but you know how it works. They get one transport and Seven gets called in to cover. Either way, drunks and bum-cicles are keeping us up all night."

"At least here I get paid to be up all night." She groaned inwardly as Ortie's eyes narrowed in that way she was beginning to really hate. "I'll be fine! We haven't worked together for a while. It'll be fun. "

"Not too much, I hope, considering the streak you're on," Ortie said, starting his own equipment checks with a small smile. "You know they have a pool going on your final body count, right?"

Leah closed her eyes. Of course they did. "What's the time frame?"

"Sunday morning, end of shift."

"What am I up to now, four?"

Ortie picked up his clipboard, then set it back down. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you. I know it's been a rough week. Those patients—_victims_, I mean—they were all beyond helping, everyone knows that."

"What's your money on?"

"I didn't say I was in on it!"

"Oh, please."

Ortie's head dropped. "Five. I figure you've got to start getting live patients again sometime. If they're still breathing when Solomon gets there, the count's bound to stay low."

"You're sweet," she said, spotting a smudge on the AED case in front of her. She gave the trigger five quick squeezes: top left, top right, bottom left, bottom right, center. "Do you know if there's any more magic erasers in the station?"

"I'm sure you already checked the storage shed. And cleaned the shelves."

Leah stopped spraying. Glass cleaner dripped down the AED case. She wiped it off in one swipe, trying to look casual as she tossed the paper towel in the bin.

Ortie snorted. "Yeah, you did."

"There was a year's worth of dust on them."

Ortie walked over and hit the switch to open the bay doors. "Whew," he said as fresh cool air drifted in. "I hate that smell."

"Yeah…me, too."

Ortie chuckled, looking at her until she became uncomfortable. "You okay?"

"Yep. Perfect."

* * *

Smecker closed his office door. Beckman had not been waiting in his office when they returned. Smecker hadn't seen him at all today, in fact, which raised his personal alert status to about a four out of five.

Dolly was quietly catching Duffy up on their florist shop addresses when Greenly hurried in, closing the door behind him and spilling hot coffee on his hand.

"Ow, fuck! We don't have much time, guys-"

The doorknob turned again, before Greenly's ass even landed in his chair. In strutted Beckman, followed by an unexpected guest.

Smecker rose slowly from his seat. "Chief O'Brian."

Beckman's lips twitched smugly, and Smecker had a very strong suspicion that he wasn't going to like whatever was coming next.

O'Brian took his time closing the door. "Agent Smecker, I hope you can spare a few minutes. Beckman, have a seat."

"Of course," Smecker said, noticing that Beckman chose the only chair that was opposite the rest of the team. "What can we do for you?"

O'Brian paced through the middle of the room. "We've got a lead on the Saints, fellas," he said. "I know it's short notice, and Beckman can fill you in on the details, but I'll need you to clear your schedules for tonight."

Smecker's heart skipped. Across the room, Greenly's eyes widened for a split-second, then narrowed thoughtfully. Dolly rubbed his goatee, appearing intrigued, while Duffy leaned forward with professional interest.

It was pride in his men that made Smecker suck in a deep breath and smile. Whatever else, those bastards could lie.

"I see," he said. "Beckman, you've been holding out on us."

"Sorry, Agent Smecker," Beckman said, sounding anything but. "I didn't want to get your hopes up until I was sure it would pan out."

"And you're sure now?"

"Confirmed this morning."

"I see," Smecker said, mentally reviewing every conversation, every possibly incriminating exchange that could have been overheard. "Well, don't be shy. Fill us in on these details."

Beckman stood. "I have reason to believe," he said, beginning to pace, and then pausing dramatically, "that the Saints are going after Carmen Mancini."

No one said anything. Greenly yawned. Duffy swirled his coffee.

"Yes," Smecker said kindly, "that's a logical next step. We've been expecting as much for months."

"It's going to be tonight."

Dolly and Greenly exchanged looks.

"Interesting. Do you have a location?" Smecker asked. "Time? Suspects?"

"I'm still working on the logistics."

"Sounds a little half-baked, Beckman. Why don't you tell us where you're getting this information?"

"I'm afraid that's confidential."

Smecker envisioned his hand around Beckman's throat, squeezing the truth out of him. No wonder he'd brought the chief along for protection.

"Then I'm afraid your lead isn't worth much to us."

"Tell them," O'Brian said to Beckman.

Beckman stood straighter, feet spread slightly, his hands clasped in front of him. "They're going to hit Mancini at home. At Chestnut Hill."

A flurry of small movements filled the room. Duffy sipped his coffee, Dolly popped a piece of Nicorette.

Greenly stretched his gangly legs. "That's ballsy."

"They are ballsy," Beckman said. "But not as smart as they'd like to believe."

"Detective," Smecker said, walking around the desk with excruciating calm. "May I remind you that although the FBI is very grateful for the City of South Boston's cooperation and accommodation, the Saints case remains a _federal_ investigation? If a lead drops out of the sky and lands in a rookie's hands—begging your pardon, Chief—it comes to _me_. _I_ verify the source. _I_ decide when, and where, and how to pursue it."

Beckman raised his brows at the chief.

"Agent Smecker," O'Brian began, sounding reluctant, "I've given Detective Beckman leave to put together the op, and to run point at the scene."

Smecker couldn't stop the small chuckle that escaped him. "Excuse me?"

O'Brian held a hand up. "Now, Paul, nothing has changed in the chain of command."

_The fuck is hasn't._ "Gentleman, would you give us a moment?"

Duffy, Dolly, and Greenly cleared out silently. O'Brian had to prod Beckman with a look, and then the older men were alone. Smecker closed the door yet again, feeling like the outside of him was moving a thousand times slower than the inside.

O'Brian spoke first. "He's got access to sensitive information, Paul. We don't want to lose that advantage – it makes sense for him to call the shots tonight."

"Tell me about this sensitive information."

"The cameras around Mancini's place show everything coming and going, from every entrance. One of them picked up a car parked on the property across the street yesterday. Couldn't get plates, but there were two men casing the place."

"That's what you're basing this on? Video footage of a parked car?"

"That's part of it."

_Not the confidential part._

"Who authorized the cameras?"

O'Brian's gray head tilted. "I thought you did."

"Not this time. It didn't come from my budget."

"Nor mine." O'Brian frowned. "All remote, wireless monitoring…it can't have been cheap, but it could be from his own pocket. I'll find out."

"He set them up himself?"

O'Brian nodded. "I understand he's taken our IT guys to task more than once. Listen, the kid's a pain in the ass, but he's getting it done. You might consider yourself lucky to have his skills. And his dedication."

"I already have the dedication. My team has barely come up for air in the last six months."

"And yet the search drags on."

Smecker couldn't stop the look he gave O'Brian—the one he usually reserved for Greenly.

"I'm not trying to harass you, Paul. I'm saying it's healthy to come up for air once in a while, take a look at what's happening around you. I'd think having Beckman on your team would have brought it to light."

"You're mincing your words, O'Brian."

The old man sighed. "Beckman mentioned—and I'm passing this along because you deserve to know what's being said—he thinks it's possible you've got a sympathizer."

Smecker smiled. "Half the city sympathizes with these guys. Ever listen to the radio? Watch the news, sit on a barstool at a friggin' diner? If you put it to a vote, the Saints would be in office by now."

"You know what I'm saying, Smecker. There's no place for it in the department. Especially not on your team. Beckman's not the first one to say it."

"And I'm sure he won't be the last."

"Listen, you haven't brought in a solid lead since the Yakavetta murder. I'm not jumping to his conclusions, but I've been in this business too long to dismiss an idea just because I don't like it."

"For argument's sake, what if he's right? You just gave him my whole team. He'll be taking this alleged sympathizer along on his stake-out."

"It'll be more than just your three. He's requested additional back-up, and I've seen no reason to deny him."

"Again, all based on an unidentified parked car."

Beneath his wrinkled brow, the chief's eyes flashed. "He has solid confirmation on the address, and the plan for it to happen tonight."

"So he does have a source."

The chief's face creased with a resigned frown.

Alarms screamed inside Smecker's head. "Identified?"

"Anonymous."

"Perfect. Going in half-cocked _and_ blindfolded."

"You of all people should understand the delicacy when working with an insider."

"This is a mistake. The department's going to gain nothing but embarrassment for this."

O'Brian shrugged, reaching for the door. "The case is an embarrassment already. At least we'll look like we're trying."

"Wait." Smecker hated the burn under his collar. "Before you two marched in here, my team and I were already working on a lead. If you want to check out both, give Beckman the back-up and let me keep my guys. I'm too friggin' busy to train a bunch of new feds from scratch."

"What have you got?"

Smecker darted a look through the mini-blinds. Beckman, Chaffey, and Mitchell were at the watercooler, looking his way, making him feel like he was in the center ring of the circus, with a live mic. He turned his back to the glass. "Mancini has plans tonight, but not at Chestnut Hill."

"Go on."

"That's all I can say. The rest is confidential."

"Don't play with me. Who's your source?"

Smecker lifted an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth turning up. "Anonymous."

O'Brian shook his head. "I can't order you to be part of this, Agent Smecker, but look at it this way—would you rather take the chance that the FBI helps bring down the Saints, or would you rather South Boston PD gets all the glory?"

The words were so ridiculous that Smecker was lost for a retort. Did the man honestly think he gave a flying fuck about glory?

"Beckman's in the lead tonight. I'll appreciate your cooperation."

"And if he's wrong?"

"Agent Smecker-"

"If Beckman's wrong, and I'm right – I want him off the case. Reassigned to another case or transferred to another damn department, I don't care."

"If he comes up cold, I'll let you make the call. You have my word on that."

He left the door open behind him. Smecker had only to stand in the doorway and the team returned as if he'd whistled for them.

"Damn," Greenly said, coming in last and shutting the door. "This department could use a little vigilante spring cleaning, if you know what I m-"

"_Greenly,_" Smecker snapped, pressing a finger to his lips. He reached into his bottom drawer, pulling a long wand that the team had been making snide comments about ever since he'd first used it on them.

Today, no one said a word. It took Smecker five full minutes to pass it over the entirety of his office. Only when it remained silent did he turn to his men.

"Beckman's got a source."

The three detectives exchanged looks.

"Well, it ain't any of us," Greenly said.

"No shit. Let's face it, nobody who's not a MacManus knows for sure what's coming next from the guys until it after it happens. Beckman's information is partially correct. It's inaccurate, but we can't afford to take chances." He sat on the edge of his desk. "As soon as you leave here, each of you buy a new burner phone. There should never be anything on your regular cells, but double check anyway- no records of calls, messages, or texts that could look suspicious. Keep using your usual phones for everything usual."

"We should warn them to call it off," Dolly said.

"They can't afford to wait," Duffy said. "Beckman's going to move on that evidence as soon as it's back from the lab. And you know Leah Solomon's clock is ticking."

"No, they can't afford to wait. Which is why they need our help."

Greenly looked confused. "But we still don't know who-"

"It's Regina Malone," Smecker said. "You can look it up later. She's works at Milan Salon, an establishment Mancini frequents."

"Mancini gets his hair cut at Salvatore's," Duffy said.

"Yeah," Greenly said, "he has for years."

"Yes. And he gets his cuticles trimmed at Milan Salon."

"Man-manis," Dolly told the other two, his face dubious. "It's a thing."

"Right," Smecker said, examining his own nails. "A status thing, commonly for businessmen. Not a fag thing. Especially when you're fucking the manicurist."

Greenly scrolled through his phone. "She's in the Melrose street town homes."

"Damn," Dolly said, his brows pushing the wrinkles all the way up his forehead. "Those places have five floors, with private decks and everything."

"They'll go in through the roof," Greenly said. "That's what I'd do."

"There's an excellent chance," Smecker had to agree.

"Wait," Duffy said, exchanging a glance with Dolly. "When I talked to Connor last night, he didn't mention-"

"We have not been invited to the party. Hopefully, we won't be crashing it. But when you suit up tonight, bring along clean weapons, and be prepared to do what is necessary. Just in case."

"We gonna run this by the guys?" Dolly asked, rubbing his goatee. "If they're not expecting us—we could look like Mancini's security up there."

"Afraid the Saints might take you out by accident?" Smecker smiled.

"Aren't you?"

Ignoring the question and the uneasiness it stirred up in his already riotous brain, Smecker walked around his desk, sat, and folded his hands in front of him. "Here's what we're going to do…."

* * *

_[continued…in the MacManus apartment…]_

_Murphy took the paper towel from Connor and wiped the blood off of his thumb._

"I can guarantee you," Murphy said, "that if Beckman finds a way to search our apartment, we're going to have bigger problems than traces of blood on the iron. Like, I don't know, the armory…"

"I'm just being smart, Murph. You should try it sometime."

"You're being neurotic."

"That's what Roc thought when we told him about the six-shooter."

"That was Roc. And I loved him like a brother, but he was a fucking moron when it came to the Family. This is different. This is me. I'm not a fucking moron."

Connor shook his head. "It doesn't worry you, knowing Beckman's got your DNA, knowing how easy it would be for that prick to hunt you down, and lock you away? Because let me tell you, it's fucking worrying me."

Murphy finally heard what his brother wasn't saying.

"Yeah, it fucking worries me, Con. But we're in this shit together. You don't get to knock me out and leave me home so you can go get bullet-grazed all alone. If you want to get shot, we fucking get shot together."

Connor's mouth twitched.

"I'll do it myself," Murphy said, "if it means I'm there to help you limp on home."

Connor wound up the iron cord. "You should fucking talk."

"I just limp so you'll carry the heavy shit. It doesn't really hurt that bad."

"You're a lying ass."

"And you're my bitch."

Connor looked at his watch. "Come on," he said, with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm fucking starved and we're out of food, as usual."

* * *

The Yolk was quiet. Murphy's stomach felt the way it always did when they were planning a mission, and he suspected Connor's was about the same.

With breakfast done and still no mistress's address from Greenly, they moved on to their next appointment.

Mass was just starting as they found their usual pew. Through no calculated effort, they'd accidentally arrived on time, a fact which had registered in Sister Margaret's delighted smile and had managed to make Murphy feel guiltier than he ever did arriving late. It wasn't like they were going to stay until the end.

His fingers found his rosary and his knees found the board. The prayer he spoke began with Our Father, but became something different, something rooted deep in his bones:

_Destroy all that is wicked, so that which is good may flourish._

Connor spoke quietly beside him, his brother's voice blending with his own, until suddenly it stopped, and a hand tapped his leg. Connor gestured to the right with his eyes—a man in a grayish suit had just walked in, and slipped into the back pew next to theirs, just across the aisle. It was Duffy, and he was looking their way.

Leah's revelation flooded him. Seeing the man now, right in front of him, Murphy still couldn't make himself believe it. He looked no different today than he ever had. Same tired suit, same ugly tie. Same eyes that took in the world, shocked by nothing, wary of everything. Murphy had always assumed that years of experience had worn him down. Perhaps it was indifference.

Murphy's head began to ache. He should have had a smoke before he came inside.

Duffy's eyes shifted to the priest, then back to the brothers, questioning.

Murphy rose as the prayer ended, and with Connor beside him, started quietly for the side chapel.

They knelt to pray at the small altar, waiting.

"What do you think?" Murphy asked Connor.

"Nothing changes—it's me and you, like we talked about."

The detective came and knelt beside Murphy.

"The Lord be with you," Murphy said.

"And also with you."

"Not that we're not happy to see you in the house of the Lord," Connor said, "but you could have just called."

"There's a problem." Duffy glanced back at the handful of parishioners dotting the chapel pews behind them. "Let's talk outside."

"Hold on," Connor said, and strode quietly toward the back of the chapel, cracking open a simple wooden door marked Private and peering inside.

Another cluster of parishioners filtered into the chapel. Murphy checked to make sure none of them was Sister Margaret.

Murphy listened for Father Tim's voice over the speaker system. They were barely a quarter of the way through the liturgy. Murphy glanced behind, and Connor gave him a nod, slipping into the room.

"Join us in our office," Murphy told Duffy.

It was the altar boys' robe room. He'd probably known the official name for it at some point, but all that mattered at the moment was that it was empty, and private, and didn't appear to have any mounted cameras. Or smoke detectors.

He lit up.

Duffy glanced around the room. "You're going to get these boys in trouble," he said.

"Trust me, some of these boys will get there all on their own," Connor said. "What's this problem of yours, Tom?"

"It's Beckman," Duffy said, exhaustion in his voice. "He's got a source tellin' him the Saints are hitting Mancini tonight."

Murphy met his brother's eyes. "Chestnut Hill?"

Dolly nodded. "He's got video of a car casing the place yesterday. No plates, but I'm guessing it was yours?"

Connor swore.

"Apparently he's got cameras up around the whole property. He's running a stake-out tonight, with half the department along for back-up."

"Including you?"

"The whole team."

Murphy felt a smile coming on. "That ought to be fun. Who gets to ride with Beckman?"

"Fuck. Not me. Smecker might, if Beckman doesn't insist on driving alone."

"Where is Smecker?" They all heard the real question: _Why didn't Smecker come himself?_

"He's with Beckman now, keeping him busy while Greenly and Dolly try to figure out his source. Smecker's checking out Beckman's video feeds at the estate, making sure they're legal so it doesn't come back to bite us when we take him down—I mean, _if_ we're going to take him down…if someone else doesn't do it first."

Murphy took a deep pull, ignoring the implied question. The ash on his cigarette was going to tumble to the carpet any moment. He looked around for a place to tap it, finally spotting a small brass ornament on a table next to a rack of robes.

Connor watched him open it. "An incense thurible, Murph, really?"

"Do you see a fucking ash tray?"

"Straight to fucking hell. Do not pass Purgatory, do not collect two hundred dollars."

Murphy gave him the finger and bit down on his now cleanly burning smoke.

Duffy shuffled his feet. "Boys, I'm just going to come out and ask, because it's going to affect how we play things with Beckman– are you going to hit Mancini tonight in Bay Village?"

There was a low rumble from the sanctuary as a hundred parishioners dropped to their knees.

"Depends," Murphy said. "It's not a very narrow target at the moment."

"Oh," Duffy said, reaching into his jacket. "Her name's Regina Malone. She's on Melrose, between Church and Arlington." He produced two black cell phones and handed one to each of them.

"What's this?" Connor asked.

"Until we know who Beckman's talking to, we're assuming communications are compromised. We got new burners for everyone, including you, just to be safe." Murphy opened his contacts, seeing that S, G, Dl, and Df were already programmed in.

"I already texted Regina's address to both of you. So, you're all set."

Murphy looked meaningfully at his brother. They needed to be very careful here.

"Smecker's still counting on dragging the Man through the red tape?" Connor asked.

"You know we have to play everything by the book right now. Everything visible."

"I want to know about Beckman's source," Murphy said. "You have to have something."

"Murphy, honestly, we don't have a damn thing. We were hoping you guys might have some idea."

The truth was, anybody in the city might guess the Saints' next target. Even Mancini would be an idiot to think he was safe forever. Seamus and Rhonwen were the only ones who knew things were going down tonight, but they had a vitally important role to play that gave them more to lose than anyone.

Doc knew about the Escalade, but he'd die before giving them up.

Connor rubbed a hand over his mouth, glancing at Murphy_. _Murphy realized there was only one name his brother would suggest. He waited for Connor to say it.

Duffy pushed his hands into his pockets. "The woman who called me the other night, asking about DNA tests…"

Murphy sucked hard on his smoke, finding himself bracing for a fight. "Her name's Annie."

"She's not a problem," Connor said.

Nicotine seemed to have affected Murphy's brain, or at least his hearing.

"She couldn't know anything about our plans," Connor said, "but even if she did—we trust her."

Murphy stared at him, forgetting to exhale, eventually coughing it out, his eyes watering.

"You all right there, Omar?" Connor asked.

"We don't talk plans, period," Murphy managed to say. "Not even with you guys."

Duffy's lips pressed together, and his gaze lowered to the floor. "I see."

True or not, saying it to Duffy's face made Murphy feel like a jerk. "Are you sure Beckman's not just dropping the bait on your team, seeing if he catches anything?"

"I don't think so. He's too proud of himself for that, even got the Chief up his ass. The old man's letting him keep his source completely anonymous, even from the heads of the department."

"Smecker's federal. He's not going to let that fly."

"He's a Fed swimming upstream in a river of Southie blue. A lot changes when a man goes for six months without a lead."

_Ouch. _Murphy wondered whose bitterness Duffy was channeling—Smecker's or his own?

"Okay," Connor said. "Then I think it's time for us to back off."

"Hold on, don't take that to mean-" He turned to Murphy. "Let's just talk about this."

"It's fine, Duffy, it's just not the right time. We'll know when it feels right."

"Wait, just hear me out, okay?" Duffy took a step closer, then caught himself. "This could be a perfect opportunity. If you got him tonight in Bay Village, while everyone's watching Beckman's side show in Chesnut Hill…I mean, we'll all look like idiots, of course, but appearances don't mean shit to some of us."

Murphy shook his head, hating that he couldn't trust this man with his whole heart. "It's no good, Tom. Whoever this source is, if they get wind of it, he'll already have the whole operation assembled. A little caravan to Bay Village—and then what are you going to do? Shoot wide at the men in the masks, with Beckman and every other cop watching? You guys are risking more than we are, don't think we don't know that."

"Forget it, Tom. We'll just call this one a draw, back up and regroup. God knows we've done it before."

"Fine." Duffy sighed, looking sorrier than he had when he arrived. "I'll let the others know. We'll figure out who's feeding Beckman, and put a stop to it, one way or another."

"We'll be in touch, Tom," Murphy said, shaking hands with the detective. "Stay safe."

Duffy gave him a long look. "You too."

* * *

Today, staying safe meant lying to their friend. Of course they weren't going to call off the hit.

Regina Malone's town house was on Melrose street, a tree-lined historic avenue that was unusually quiet and ridiculously fucking beautiful. The streets in the tiny neighborhood of Bay Village were a maze of crooked one-ways that afforded no short-cuts to the through-traffic, and pretty much no street parking for outsiders. It was upscale, and classy, especially compared to his own dull and dirty situation less than a mile away. It disgusted him beyond words that a piece of shit like Mancini was polluting it.

They found a good spot to leave the car later that night, and then made a few passes to scope the building, the alleyways, exits, dead-ends to avoid. The roof was the obvious entry point, but the fact that it was shared by three other town house owners made things more complicated.

The buildings beside it were identical, each with four townhouse units. There were no public entrances, and no fire escapes to sneak up since every unit had stairs from the ground floor.

"The one on the end's for sale," Murphy noticed. "Check it out." Connor rolled up to the unit and Murphy darted over to read the sign. There was an agent's name, a phone number, and a website. "No price," Murphy said, getting back in the car. "What do you think these things go for?"

"More than you'll ever make packing meat."

Murphy squinted, blinded intermittently by spots of sunlight piercing through the autumn leaves. "I could live someplace like this."

Connor's laugh grated on him.

"I don't mean like _this_, I mean…"

"You like the gaslamps."

"Everybody likes gaslamps."

"Including manicurists who can't afford places like this. Mancini must be making the payments."

A familiar heat sparked inside him. How many guns had been sold to street criminals so that Mancini could fatten his wallet? How many people had been killed? How many lives had been ruined so that an evil man could cheat on his wife in a nice neighborhood?

From a public computer at the library, they looked up the Realtor's website and found pictures of all the yuppie upgrades, including several shots of the private rooftop deck. As a bonus there was a link to a Google map, and the Earth option let them see the whole building from the angels' point of view.

Seamus called to check in, and Connor warned him in no uncertain terms about Beckman's plan to stake out the Mancini estate. It was Seamus's choice whether or not to abort. Like a good Irishman, he only seemed more excited to have a larger audience.

"_Let that motherfucking wop soak it up on the evening news."_

"That's the spirit," Connor said, and gave him their new phone numbers. "We'll call you when it's on."

"_I'll be ready_."

Darkness was falling by the time they made it back home.

"Time to strap on the big guns," Connor announced, carrying the duffel bag with exaggerated ceremony.

"You've been waiting all day to say that."

"I've been waiting all fucking week."

Murphy turned his new Beretta over in his hands, watching the last red rays of sunlight slide over the surface. It made him think of the leaves on Melrose Ave, and the gaslamps. "What do you see happening after this is over, Con?"

"After tonight? Or after we eliminate Mancini and the Associate?"

"After everything."

Connor scratched an eyebrow with the barrel of his pistol. "Hadn't thought about it," he said.

"Bullshit. We both have." The question was like a familiar ache in his bones—one that swells and recedes, but never really goes away.

"Is this about what I said to Duffy about Annie?"

"I assumed that was you finally seeing the light."

"That was me backing up my partner. My brother. I said we'd trust her, and I'm not a liar, Murph. Don't let me turn into one." Connor adjusted his holster, concentrating awfully hard on the strap. "But to answer your question, I see us at Doc's."

"Doc's."

"Aye, with me drinking your sorry ass under the table." His tone was light, but his eyes sharpened on Murphy. "Why, what do you see?"

An image came, of a sleepy-eyed girl wrapped in a sheet, smiling behind dark, tousled hair.

_I want to be done. I want to know that I've finished the job, and then I want to walk away and never look back. _Connor's response wouldn't be hard to predict.

"I don't know," Murphy said. "All I know is Doc won't be around forever."

* * *

It was earlier than Murphy would have liked, but at a quarter to ten, Bay Village's Saint Joseph of Cupertino street festival was at its height. The celebration was a block over, and though the music was probably loud enough to rile the uptight residents, Murphy wasn't convinced it would mask the sound of shattering glass.

"It'll sound like beer bottles," Connor insisted. "Besides, you got a better idea?"

The weathered but sturdy scaffolding plank wasn't long enough to reach roof to roof, but it worked to bridge the gap between the fire escape of the building behind and the vacant townhome's oversized, double-paned, fourth-floor staircase window. With only a minor panic attack when the wood wobbled dangerously, Murphy followed his brother inch by inch across the void, grasped the small overhang and swung into the dark, empty townhouse. His full concentration was on avoiding shards of glass (and leaving more traces of DNA), and so when his feet landed on uneven ground, he wasn't entirely ready for it.

"Easy, dumbass," Connor hissed, catching him by the jacket. "Can't see the stairs in the dark?"

Murphy hauled the plank in through the broken window and propped it carefully against the wall. "Aye, I see the fucking stairs. Can we get on with it? If somebody heard that, we won't have much time."

Connor flicked him on the ear, then darted out of reach, taking the stairs two at a time.

Murphy followed, up to the roof, silently double checking his guns and ammo. If all went according to plan, he wouldn't even need to reload—they'd take out Mancini's handful of guards, and then after a little Q & A, the Man himself.

Nearing the peak of the rooftop access, the walls and exit door were thick glass. They dropped to crawl up the last steps. Outside, a gateless waist-high stucco wall surrounded the vacant deck. All of the neighbors were home; down the line, like a row of glowing, slant-roofed outhouses, ambient light shone from all three of the other roof access doors. There was one deck between this one and Mancini's, and from what he could see, there didn't appear to be anyone on it.

Connor turned the door handle, waited, and then opened it an inch, enough for the wind to rush in, carrying voices, a low male rumble peppered by shrill, nasally giggles and the sound of splashing. Murphy raised his head slowly, and saw them, two decks over, dark heads in a hot tub, lit by the orange perforated light of two restaurant-style heat lamps.

Making sure the door wouldn't lock behind them, they slipped out and moved along the privacy wall, stopping when they reached the rear wall of the building. There were no gates between these private properties – to go from one deck to the next, you had to go over the wall.

Connor climbed quickly over the small wall, scanned the new area, and then gestured for Murphy to follow.

Making sure every weapon was tucked in tight, Murphy scaled the wall as quietly as he could. They moved swiftly to the opposite side of the deck, to the wall bordering Mancini's deck. Connor touched Murphy's shoulder, pointing with his Beretta at what Murphy had already seen. Two pasta-fed men in dark suits lurked beside Mancini's roof access door, one smoking in a patio chair, one standing with hands clasped in front of him, scanning for threats—and not very successfully.

"Perfect," Connor said, his grin shining in the moonlight. "Wanna play catch?"

"Now?"

Connor was already taking aim.

"Shit," Murphy breathed, hurtling the wall, crossing the deck just in time to catch the standing guard as he crumpled. Murphy eased him to the ground, then checked the guard in the chair—already dead, thanks to the perfectly centered hole in his forehead.

"Go on," Connor whispered, joining him, "tell me how good I am."

"The fuck I will. I barely caught him before he crashed through the glass."

"Someone's got to keep you on your toes—"

"Hush-I think they've just turned off the jets." The rumble of bubbling water subsided, allowing them to hear the distant sounds of the festival and Mancini grumbling about how undeserving Saint Joseph was of his own parade. Regina the manicurist giggled, asking what she would have to do for Mancini to buy her her own parade float. Then someone slapped the jets back on, and the voices were thankfully muffled again.

The raised platform of the Jacuzzi made it hard to see from their distance and crouched positions, but looked like the woman's back was to them. Splashing sounds grew louder and became more rhythmic, and when the man's dark-haired head leaned back, Murphy realized what he was watching.

"Jesus. Nice timing, Con."

"Ah, man, _really_?" He raised his head quickly and came back covering his eyes. "Fuck. I think I burned my retinas."

"We couldn't ask for a better distraction, though."

Murphy sought out the clearest path, the various chairs and tables and umbrellas turning the landscape into an obstacle course.

"Stick to the back," Connor said. "Split and come up the sides."

Murphy nodded, the heat lamps fucking with his eyes, throwing fiery dots of light across his vision, obscuring the darker shadowy areas, making him see hot embers glowing and fading, like burning ends of cigarettes in the darkness. He closed his eyes and took a breath, trying to reset them.

"Murph, you good?"

"I'm fine."

Connor scooted behind a deck chair. "Good. Then I'll take her, you get him from behind. And for God's sake, make sure he hasn't got a piece within reach."

"Let's go. Sounds like…they're almost done."

"Christ, that was fast."

They crouched and crept, and in less than a minute, his heart pounding like a jackhammer, Murphy pressed his gun to Mancini's temple.

"Who the fuck—"

Murphy slammed him with his free hand, just below the ear, and it felt so good it was probably a sin.

"Hands up, out of the water!"

Aiming from the opposite side, Connor grabbed the girlfriend, who cried out in alarm, steam rising from her over-tanned skin as she raised both hands. Connor pulled her aside, separating them.

"Motherfucker—you better tell me who sent you."

"Your wife, fuck face. We're the fucking marriage police."

Mancini muttered something, and then he looked up, staring past Connor towards the access door. "Didn't expect you so soon," he said loudly.

"Don't bother calling, there's no one left to hear you."

"Your thugs had a prior engagement," Connor said. "They won't be part of this conversation-neither will she. Out of the tub, Regina."

The girlfriend hesitated, startled that he knew her name. "Carmie-"

"Quiet," Mancini snapped. "Don't call me that. Just do what the man says."

Dripping and naked, she climbed out, shaking so badly that she knocked over the wine glass perched on the edge of the tub. It shattered at her feet.

"Don't move," Connor ordered. There was a leopard print bathrobe laying on a nearby chaise lounge. Connor felt the pockets, and then let her put it on. "Hands behind your back."

"Or what?" Mancini mocked while Connor tied her hands. "If you wanted us dead, we'd be dead already. What do you want from me, money? Contracts? To leave alone your poor poppy's business?"

"A name," Murphy said. "Of the man who's been leaving a bloody trail of bodies all over Boston."

Mancini chuckled. "How sad. To have forgotten your own names. Surely your momma remembers?"

Murphy tightened his grip on the Man's wet hair. "The Associate, fuck face. We know he's a cop."

Mancini straightened, trying to lessen Murphy's pull on his hair. "Captain Lance Daugherty," he spat. "Chief Fitzgerald, Lieutenant Atwater in North End, Chief O'Brian—would you like me to go on? I'll give you a case of that Pinot—it's a 2007—if you put a bullet in each of their brains. They are all-what is the word you _Saints_ use? Ah, yes. Corrupt. Evil. You'll take my word for it, won't you? I'm a very trustworthy individual." His head shook with a laugh beneath Murphy's gloved fingers.

"If you know who we are," Murphy said, "then unless you cooperate, you know I won't have the slightest problem pulling this trigger."

"You mean _until_," Mancini said. "I'm not a fucking _idiota_. You think I don't know what happens once I give you what you want?"

"Keep your arms up," Murphy said, prodding the back of the man's head with his pistol. "Maybe tonight I'm feeling merciful."

"I'm not," Mancini said, dropping his hands to the water and throwing a steaming wave back at Murphy.

"Motherfucker!" Murphy swore, barely controlling his trigger finger. He heard Connor shout as he blinked the hot chlorine from his eyes, seeing Mancini in a blur, rolling sideways out of the tub. He fired a few shots, aiming just wide enough to avoid a kill shot. Blood and pain would be perfectly fine.

None of his shots hit home. Mancini's hand snaked into a potted palm. Murphy tackled him with his full weight, soaking his pants on Mancini's wet swim trunks. Murphy reached into the plant and smiled.

"This what you're looking for?" he asked, pulling out a large pistol—another H&K. "Nice piece," he said, letting Connor jam Mancini's face to the concrete while he checked the mag—"Vigoda had one like this, said he got it from you. It's a bit heavy for my taste, but then, I've never felt the need to overcompensate."

Mancini groaned, and swore at him in Italian. "Vigoda was a waste, a dick with no balls. You should have saved your prayers for someone worth killing."

"Like who, Martha Osborne and Yamir Kandukuri? Old ladies and janitors – were they worth killing?"

"I had nothing to do with those deaths."

Connor held Regina down next to him and tied Mancini's hands. "Your Associate goes around murdering innocent people, and you have no say. Interesting. They have a word for powerless leaders: _impotent_."

"Oh, please. In this business, people die. I can't possibly take credit for all of them."

Murphy tucked the H&K into his holster. "What about Frankie Hayes, you take credit for him?"

"Who?"

"Enough bullshit," Connor said. "Time for a little motivational H2O. Do they call it a swirly in the States?"

They'd forced Mancini to the edge of the hot tub when Murphy heard it-a shuffling, a scuffing on the concrete that was distinctly out of place, even over the white noise of the Jacuzzi jets. Murphy's eyes locked with his brother's. There was a switch on the tub rim next to him—with the tip of his pistol, he clicked it to OFF.

The surging bubbles subsided and the scuffing sound became clear—footsteps. In stereo.

Beyond the orange fiery heat lamps, a dozen hulking shadows separated from the greater darkness, closing in around them. Mancini's thugs, at least a dozen of them, each with a submachine gun aimed in their direction.

…

…_to be continued._

* * *

_**Author's Note:** Don't kill me, guys! Cliffies are good for your metabolism. Also, feedback makes writers shorten their time between posts by 2.5 weeks, on average. (Ok, I made that up, but I bet if you try it, it will work!)_


	41. The Call

**[Chapter 41: The Call]**

_[Chestnut Hill]_

"Why don't you just not shoot _anyone_? Wouldn't that make things simpler?"

Annie reworded her question for the third time, using every remaining ounce of patience she possessed to keep the bitchiness out of her voice. She was doing her best to ignore her growling stomach and her aching ass, and the fact that she'd greatly misunderstood the meaning of _wear something dark_.

The last time she'd made the mistake of working with Beckman, he'd spiked her drinks at a slick little speak-easy Martini bar. Apparently, blackmailing required somewhat less of an investment on his part.

They'd been here for hours already, holed up in the bushes of some ritzy estate across from Boston's reigning mob boss, and she had yet to hear a believable reason for this "assistance" Beckman wanted her to provide. If she could just convince him of the obvious truth – that she had no business whatsoever being here—maybe he'd let her off the hook.

Beckman continued to adjust the multiple video feeds on his laptop, finally answering with an irritated sigh. "This was what you wanted, Annie. You practically begged me for the chance to help bring down the Saints, and now you get to protect your friends while you're at it. Win-win."

"Come on. Forcing me to ID my friends—and get them arrested—so that you won't _kill _them?"

"I don't want to kill them—how many times do I have to say it? That's the whole point. There are more than a dozen armed police officers on this operation. Carmen Mancini likely has at least that many men guarding him, and since he's a suspected weapons dealer-"

"_Known _weapons dealer."

"_Alleged_ weapons dealer—they're probably better armed than we are." His frown told her he wasn't completely comfortable with this fact. "When the Saints and whoever's helping them arrive tonight, someone _is going_ to start shooting."

Annie remembered the gun she'd felt on Murphy that night she'd cleaned the blue glass out of his cut. Her head swam, as it had been doing a lot since she'd seen him last, wondering what she would do if he showed up tonight.

"Now," Beckman went on, "police are trained to shoot to kill. And when they do, lawyers are trained to fuck them over."

"Don't try to tell me this is about lawyers."

"It's about justice. I want to see the Saints pay for their crimes. What I don't want is bodies in the street, and cops tangled in red tape. This case will never be resolved if we don't capture the Saints, alive and able to stand trial. You should be glad I'm letting you be a part of it."

"Yes, Josh. I'm very grateful."

"Hey, it's your choice. You see a car or a face you know, it's entirely your decision whether you speak up. You can certainly keep your silence, see how things play out, see who's left standing once we all run out of bullets."

Annie closed her eyes, wanting to scream. "You know, it's men like you that create men like the Saints."

"I don't create crazy. Psychologically unstable people are naturally predisposed."

"Oh, God. Here we go."

"The fugitives known as the Saints have become detached from a normal understanding of right and wrong, and have adopted an extremist mindset, vigilante blinders if you will, letting them block out both natural and learned inhibitions. They carry out lethal judgments based on obscure standards that-"

"What do you find obscure about their standards?" Annie interrupted. "Out of curiosity."

Beckman started to answer, but seemed to get stuck. "Well, it's serial killers like the Saints who create the need for law enforcement like me."

"No, it's serial killers like _Carmen Mancini_—you know, the monster whose house we're parked in front of—who create the need for law enforcement. Yet you're completely unconcerned with him and his terrorizing empire. All you care about is chasing down Mancini's enemies _for_ him. If I didn't know better…"

"Watch your tone."

"Why, what else can you do to me?"

Josh gave her a look that she translated roughly to mean _anything I damn well please_.

"Go ahead, bully me some more. It's your fucked-up methods that made this situation. _You_ made this, this void, this gaping wound between what people need you to be and what you actually are."

"And what are the Saints, a band-aid?"

"I didn't say that."

"Did you or did you not move here from California because they killed your friend?"

She could still hear the finality in Murphy's voice, low and lilting, as they'd sat on the floor of that Laundromat:

_Roc's killer is dead. The Saints took care of him._

"What if …" She stared straight ahead, unable to face Beckman's penetrating gaze. "If I was wrong about that, it would change things, right? If their only victims were real criminals?"

"You're saying your friend Rocco wasn't a criminal?"

_He wasn't with them…Roc wasn't taking orders anymore._

"I'm saying it's worth taking a second look at the Saints' motives. Is that too much to ask? To try seeing it from a different perspective—unbiased, open-minded?"

"What happened to you? When did you become a convert?"

"I'm not. I don't have to agree with them in order to disagree with you."

"No, you've been talking to someone. Let me guess-was he, by chance, talk, dark, and handsome, with an Irish accent?"

"I was right. It is too much to ask. Couldn't pry your mind open with a crowbar."

"Your problem is that you don't understand violence. It's a cycle, not a solution. Crime begets crime. Killing begets killing. Unless someone puts a stop to it."

"Are you sure _you_ haven't been converted? Because that logic sounds like something straight out of the Saints' courthouse rant."

"It's not." She scoffed, and he looked over at her. "I know it word for word," he said.

Interesting.

"Fine," she said. "Let's say you do arrest them-or their friends, or random associates of the MacManus brothers that you seem to think are related-all you do is make life easier for Mancini. You might as well be on his payroll. Think about it."

He stared out at the mob boss's gate, frowning. For a brief, crystallizing moment Annie thought she'd gotten through.

"If you bring down Mancini, on the other hand," she said, trying to paint it with calm rationality, "there's a chance the Saints might just go away on their o-"

Radio traffic interrupted, and he held up a hand to shush her. There was a short exchange confirming other officers' positions in the area.

She recognized a particularly thick Boston accent. "Is that Greenly?" she asked, noticing Beckman released the button to talk as soon as she spoke, though he hadn't finished his sentence. She'd assumed this stakeout was with local Chestnut Hill cops.

There was crackling, unintelligible static from the speaker, and then:

"_Somebody with you, Beckman_?"

Beckman swore under his breath. He pressed the button, and then let go, wrangling his temper. "Annie. When I'm on the radio, you keep your mouth shut, is that clear?" He pressed the button again without waiting for her to answer. "Five-two, advise ten-ninety-nine."

She recognized the code as one she'd learned working for Boston EMS: _limit radio traffic to current situation only_, i.e., shut up and quit asking questions.

A chill slithered down her spine. "Nobody else knows I'm here."

Beckman hung up the radio. "You're here to serve a purpose, not be seen or heard. Keep your eyes on the damn road, and tell me when you see someone you recognize."

She fought the urge to give him the finger, and turned to the street, watching the occasional car pass by, trying to convince herself that he had no way of proving whether she recognized someone or not.

If there was some Saints activity happening here tonight, it wouldn't be out here at the gate, it would be inside the house, right? Unless they were planning on killing the gate guards, too. Which did seem likely, now that she thought about it…

"Tell me again why you think something's happening here tonight?"

"I don't think. I know."

"So you're in contact with someone close to them."

Beckman looked at her like she was crazy if she thought he would tell her. A wild feeling swelled in her chest– indignation, anger, betrayal—for what? For whom? For someone else trying to bring the Saints down, exactly as she had not two days earlier. Still the feeling swirled—it had to do with Murphy, she admitted with a crush of defeat. If someone was betraying the Saints, and he was that close to them, then he was also being betrayed…and that meant he was also in danger.

Beckman's warning of a firefight started to become very relevant. "This person with all the information, are they going to be here tonight?"

Beckman's mouth pinched smugly.

"Do they only talk to you on the phone?" she asked. "Or do you know what they look like?"

Again with the smug smile.

She fought to keep from flipping out on him. "Telling me…might be helpful."

"You just look for Murphy and his brother, and anyone else they associate with."

"So, you're not going to tell me who your contact is, or what they look like. You already know what Murphy and Connor look like, and if they're associated with anyone else – I don't know about it any more than you do. So, here's my question-what in the seven levels of hell am I_ doing here?"_

Beckman put a firm hand on her arm. Apparently she'd been waving it while she shouted.

"It doesn't matter who you see," he said. "I need _you_ here." His voice was sort of strangled. He sighed, staring straight ahead out the windshield. "I need an eyewitness."

She nodded, strangely paralyzed by the hand on her arm. She nodded, even though he wasn't making sense.

He started to remove his hand, then stopped, giving it another squeeze. Not painful, but meaningful. "And just in case you're thinking of stonewalling me," he said, back to his usual prick-voice, "I'll be happy to call up someone else who knows your ex-boyfriend-"

Annie shook him off. "Uncle Jake, yes I know. Your threats are subtle, but I manage to get the message."

It occurred to her that he'd turned to blackmail because he could think of no better way to control her. It was more than unfair—it was fucked up. Frustrated tears burned in her eyes but there was no way in hell she'd give Beckman the satisfaction. How did she get herself into these situations?

She thought of Murphy and his scabbed knuckles, his cuts and bruises (and stab wounds). She thought of that gun, and wondered whether he'd used it, and why. There was so much fighter in him that there hardly seemed room for him to be anything else. The one thing she knew for certain-he would never let himself get pushed around like this.

A large SUV slowed at the gate, and then kept driving. Beckman looked at her and she shook her head—she didn't recognize it. But it gave her an idea.

When another car approached, she sat up straighter, staring intently at it as it passed.

Beckman jerked his head around fast enough to pull something. "That sedan? The black one that needed a wash?"

"I think I know it."

He snapped up the radio and ordered one of the units to pull them over. She tried to swallow a spasm of panic.

Releasing the radio button, he asked, "Whose car is it?"

"I don't know, it's just familiar."

"I need a name, Annie."

"I don't remember-"

"Then how could you recognize the car? Give me a name, the first name that comes to mind when you think of that mud-spattered car."

"Jackson." Technically, it was the truth.

"First name?"

"Jackson's his first name. Last name is…" She hesitated. She couldn't go that far. "P…something"

"Looked like there were passengers. Can you think of any associates?"

"Andy. And Roy."

"Last names?"

"Andy's might start with a W."

"Come on, you can do better than that. What about Roy? No initials, I want a damn name."

Her heart pounded. It was beyond reckless, but the word found its way out. "Lichtenstein."

Beckman shrunk the video feed windows on his laptop and pulled up a website.

She had a small heart attack until she realized it was a law enforcement site. He drilled the keyboard, repeating the names aloud, frowning when his search found no results.

The other officer radioed back that the names didn't match, that the people seemed legit, and asked if he should hold them for questioning.

Annie shook her head, and Beckman reluctantly told him no, that they'd made a mistake, that the officer should return to his post.

"Sorry," she said, fighting a ridiculous, overwhelming urge to laugh despite the twinge of guilt she felt for whoever had been in that car.

"It's all right," he said. "We'll just keep trying."

She needed someone to slap her. She almost did it herself. This unstoppable grin-it was like every time Zeke got her to play Texas Hold'em.

Another car approached, another large black SUV.

Beckman glanced at her. "Say the word."

She let the car pass without comment, but pointed at the one that came next.

Beckman gave her a look. "Mercedes mini-van, really?" He called for a unit to stop the car. "You're sure?" he asked.

"Definitely. The guy's name is…Ed. He and Murphy go way back."

"That was a woman driving."

"Oh. Um, Mary, maybe?"

"Last names?"

_Don't do it. Don't do it._ "Try Cassatt." She spelled it for him.

"Married, same name?"

"Hmm. No, I think his last name is Degas."

She waited while he relayed the names to the other cops, watched him search the police database, biting her lip until it hurt.

The radio crackled with Agent Smecker's unmistakable voice: "Beckman, Johnson just pulled over a grandmother and her handicapped husband, a retired BU history professor." Beckman tried to respond, but Smecker continued over him, "You want to tell us who's feeding you this intel?"

Beckman looked at Annie long and hard. Radio static filled the car. Annie picked at a smudge of ink under her fingernail, saying a silent prayer that Agent Smecker and the other cops would get her message before Beckman caught on.

Smecker came back on. "Perhaps we should try verifying these hot tips before we get accused of harassing the good people of Chesnut Hill. Just a thought."

"I'll take it under advisement." Beckman's fingers clenched around the radio. "All units continue to stand by. Be on alert for anything suspicious."

* * *

Smecker scoffed. "He wouldn't know suspicious if it was sitting right next to him."

"Mary Cassatt and Ed Degas," Duffy murmured. They did sound a little familiar, but for the life of him, he couldn't say why.

Smecker tilted his head, getting that look he always did at fresh crime scenes, minus the head phones. "Duffy, did you visit the MFA last season?" he asked.

"Seriously?"

"Yes. This is my serious face."

"My daughter had a field trip there once, in eighth grade. I picked her up in the lobby. She's in her second year at Suffolk now."

Smecker rolled his eyes. "Did you at least hear about the French Masters exhibit?"

"Was it on ESPN?"

Smecker's lips clamped together and he closed his eyes.

Duffy chuckled. "I'm kidding. But no, I never heard about any French Masters."

Smecker started the engine and quietly pulled out from the service road where they'd been parked, heading east, back into the city.

Before Duffy could ask why, the radio buzzed. "_Unit one, did you just leave your post?_"

Smecker picked up the radio. "Got a lead on another case, Beckman. You'll have to handle this one without us."

"_I need all units in position._"

"You'll be fine. You're doing great so far."

There was a long pause. Duffy watched the video feeds on Smecker's laptop, content to be on this side of the pissing contest.

"_Fine_," Beckman said, his voice becoming weaker as the distance grew between them, "_but first, have you heard of…Pablo, or an associate-_"

"Let me guess," Smecker cut in, "Francisco?"

"_No_," Beckman's surprise was barely detectible above the static. "_Sal, actually…_"

"Can't help you." Smecker hung up the radio and stepped on the gas, his smile lines deepening.

"You going to tell me what's going on?"

"What's going on," Smecker said, "is that someone's fucking with Beckman."

…

* * *

Annie watched another SUV drive by, a Cadillac Escalade. Was it the same one from before? It was hard to tell, especially when her nerves had her more concerned with danger inside of the car than outside of it.

The radio buzzed and the officer reported the car he'd stopped as another false alarm. This time Beckman watched her the whole time he was speaking. When he hung up, he said not a word, just turned back to his computer and started typing.

The risk of what she was doing sank in deeper with each click on the keyboard. Beckman was her ride, for Christ's sake. She couldn't call Jake, and let Beckman make good on all his threats. Zeke's piece of crap car would never make it this far. If she called Murphy, Beckman would sic the entire sting operation on him.

Wait, her phone was still missing—she couldn't call anyone anyway.

Her eyes fell on the radio. Could she beat him to it, in time to call for help? Who would she call? Smecker and Duffy were miles away by now. Greenly might still be out there somewhere.

If she ran to a neighboring house, would they let her in before Beckman caught up with her? Isolation was probably a big selling point in this neighborhood, but with the hovering possibility of vigilante justice erupting, it was enough to make her sit on her hands to stop them from shaking.

It was very quiet; Beckman's taps on the keyboard had stopped. He stared at her over the top of the screen, nostrils flaring. She didn't have to look to know it was Google.

Ever so slowly, her fingers felt for the door handle.

"Don't even try it," he said through clenched teeth. "You're under arrest."

The nervous smile she'd been holding back all night finally broke free, at the worst possible moment. "You can't arrest your eyewitness!"

He threw the computer across the dash, cracking it against the glass. "Watch me."

Tugging cuffs from his belt with one hand, he grabbed for her wrists. She squirmed free, hugging her arms in tight, ready to kick him if came too close. "This is your fault!" she cried, yanking the handle. The door barely opened, he'd wedged them in so close to the bushes. She pushed it with all her might, scratching those branches nice and deep through his beautiful paint job.

"Damn it, Annie!" A hand latched on to her ankle, but she kicked free, her sore ribs screaming in protest as she pulled herself up onto the roof of the car, and then scrambled over the trunk, towards the street.

He flew after her, and she cursed the designer of the platform wedge with every swear word she knew, suddenly understanding Murphy's need to master more languages. She'd made it halfway to the gate of the next property when Beckman's steps closed in, impossibly fast. He caught her by the arm in the middle of the road.

She struggled, but he apparently had a lot of experience with combative suspects, because he had her cuffed in no time. "Do you have a death wish?" he asked, jerking her back towards the car. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Escaping from a madman."

"Not very well. Nobody fucks with my investigations, Annie."

"_I_ did—because nobody fucks with my family."

"We'll see about that."

She tripped in a pothole, and Beckman steadied her with a painful squeeze on the cuffs. "Come on," he said. "You've been almost cooperative all night."

"Submission to force is not cooperation. A pile of crap with a cherry on top is still a pile of crap."

"Graphic. You really are an artist. I can almost see the steam rising."

"As a muse, you're very inspiring. Would you slow the heck down? I twisted my ankle."

"Your fault, wearing those ridiculous shoes."

"You told me to wear something dark!"

"Yes, dark, not dominatrix. Who wears heels to a stakeout?"

"They're wedges. And NO ONE TOLD ME I WAS GOING TO A STAKE-OUT."

"Did you think this was a dinner date?"

Annie didn't answer. She had, in fact, assumed there would be dinner.

Beckman laughed to himself, steering her into the shadows as Mancini's gate came into view. "Tell you what," he said quietly, "if we catch them, I'll buy you a drink. I know this great Martini bar-"

_Whack!_

Wedges: not so good for running. Excellent for kicking.

Beckman dropped with a grunt, cradling his boy parts with one hand, pulling her down with his other hand still gripping her cuffs. She landed half on her side, half on her face, scuffing her chin, the pain in her ribs taking her breath away—all as the headlights of an SUV bore down on them.

"Shit!" Beckman grabbed her, rolling them both towards the side of the road. The car swerved, narrowly avoiding them, and as irony would have it, she caught a glimpse of the driver's face. He looked just as surprised to see her as she was to see him.

By the time they got back to Beckman's car, the radio was going nuts.

Beckman pushed her in, locked the doors, and picked up the radio. "Unit three, what the hell is going on?"

"_It's a car, sir, at the main gate. Mancini's men are all over it."_

"Josh, look."

There was a car sideways in road, right in front of the main gate. It looked like the SUV that had almost hit them, except the driver was nowhere to be seen. All of the attention was on the rear of the vehicle, which was angled in their direction. There was something large and light colored inside, like a wooden box. A large muscular guy was working on opening it, while several other armed men hovered around him, talking excitedly on cell phones.

"_Could be a weapons deal, sir. Should we intervene?"_

"Not yet. Watch for illegal activity, but maintain your position."

She rolled her window down, still sweating from her failed escape attempt. A shout carried from Mancini's gate.

"Holy shit!"

The muscular guy reeled from the box, cursing some more, pointing for the others to look. The reactions were all the same: shock and horror.

"My God, what's in there?" Annie wondered.

The cell phones lit up, and the throng of armed men grew as more joined them from the house.

"That's what I'm going to find out," Beckman said, giving Annie a sharp look before gesturing for her to turn, and then uncuffing her. "There's napkins in the glove box, for your chin. If I leave, will you be here when I get back?"

Annie sank into her seat. The alternatives weren't looking so hot at the moment. "Are you sure you are coming back? That's a lot of guns out there. Maybe you should wait for some back-up."

Beckman was already stepping out of the car, checking the gun in his holster. He leaned back in before closing the door.

"Don't get out. Don't talk to anyone. Don't answer the radio, or-"

Annie pulled his door shut. And locked it.

* * *

_Smecker smiled. "Someone's fucking with Beckman."_

"And while I'd love to go shake hands with the son of a bitch, we've got better places to be." Smecker stepped on the gas, punching the radio to the dispatch frequency. "How are those video feeds looking?" he asked Duffy.

"Great, actually. These web-linked cameras are the best surveillance set-up I've had in years. Wait—someone's leaving."

Smecker's eyes narrowed at the laptop screen. "Theirs or ours?"

"Ours. A patrol unit."

Frowning, Smecker checked the rearview mirror.

Duffy turned and picked out six sets of headlights behind them. "Go ahead and change lanes," he said.

Smecker did, passing two cars going the speed limit, and then returned to their original lane. Duffy kept watching. Four cars back, a sedan with a tell-tale push bumper did the same.

Smecker whipped out his Bluetooth earpiece, turning down the radio. "Greenly," he said after a moment of dialing, "In case you and Dolly haven't figured it, this stakeout was over before it began."

"_Yeah,"_ Greenly said with a snort that was amplified by the radio,_ "we heard you give it to Beckman. You want us to-"_

"Sorry, guys, I need you to stay put and do me a favor-call around and find out who just left the op, besides us. We've sprouted a tail."

"_Let me call you back_."

They merged onto I-90. Their tail kept pace.

Greenly called back, and Smecker put him on speaker. "_It's Chaffey and Mitchell_," Greenly said. "_You want me to radio them?_"

"No," Smecker said. "I've got their numbers." He hung up and dialed again.

"_Hello?"_

"Chaffey, what the hell do you think you're doing? If I wanted someone to ride my ass-"

"Explain yourself, Chaffey," Duffy interrupted, saving them all from the rest of that sentence. "Do it fast."

There was a long pause. "_Agent Smecker_." Chaffey's voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. "_Beckman asked us to follow you. I'm sorry, sir. He's not too happy you left the op_."

Smecker stepped on the gas, and Duffy could almost see the smoke coming out his ears. He passed three, four, five cars before answering the young officer.

On the video feed, another two cars left from the rear of the property, large, dark sedans that were most definitely not patrol officers. Duffy turned the monitor and motioned for Smecker to look.

"Okay, Chaffey, I understand," Smecker said, his voice amiable while he stared intently at the computer screen, "You're just taking orders. We'll see you back at the station." He hung up quickly, pulling his earpiece and asking Duffy, "Mancini's men. Could you tell which way they went?"

"East, same as us," Duffy told him, checking the side mirror. They were putting distance between their car and Chaffey's, and in a matter of minutes, the patrol car was almost too far back to see. Different headlights were coming up fast, bluish and set wider apart.

"Is that them?" Smecker asked, watching the rearview.

"Could be. Can you see the second one, behind?"

"Yeah. I'm going to move to the slow lane, see what they do."

What they did was fly by in a blur.

"Christ, they have to be going over ninety."

Up ahead, Duffy saw the speeding cars swerve into the exit lane. "Wanna pull them over?"

"No. I want to see where they're in such a rush to get to."

They sped to catch up, following the speeding cars off the Copley Square exit and banking onto Stuart street.

"Damn," Smecker breathed. "I was afraid of this."

They had slowed to surface street speeds, but it felt to Duffy like they were being pulled down a steep hill, too quickly to stop. Cold spread through his chest as he began to guess the turns before they made them. He and Dolly had spent all day discussing these streets. They were heading into Bay Village.

...

* * *

[_Regina Malone's rooftop - continued -_]

_Beyond the orange fiery heat lamps, a dozen hulking shadows separated from the greater darkness, closing in around them. Mancini's thugs, at least a dozen of them, each with a submachine gun aimed in Murphy and Connor's direction. _

Quickly, Murphy jerked Mancini up, a barrel to his temple.

"What the fuck took you so long?" Mancini yelled at his men.

"Bad move, Carmen," Connor said, backing off from Regina very slightly so that the gun he held on her could be clearly seen by all. "Call them off."

Mancini shook with a laugh. "You think waving a little pistol around lets you control _my_ men? That you can just ask, and I'll give up _my_ Associate? Who do you think told me you were coming?"

Connor held Regina by her hair, but she twisted, wincing, to look at Mancini. "You knew? You asshole, you _knew_?"

"Watch your fucking mouth," Mancini told her. "I took care of it. Obviously. Shoot that one," he said to his men. Regina cried out in protest, though it wasn't clear if Mancini meant her, or Connor. Not that a submachine gun would differentiate.

Murphy slammed the H&K under Mancini's jaw so hard his teeth cracked together, and then shifted his Beretta aim to the thug nearest Connor. "You shoot first, you die first," he said. It wasn't a warning. It was a promise.

Unable to speak, Mancini lifted his hands at waist-level, a plea for his men to back it down a notch. One over-anxious trigger finger and it wouldn't matter how carefully any gun was aimed. This quiet little corner of Boston would explode.

The line of thugs fanned out to surround them on three sides. Murphy's and Connor's backs were to the hot tub, which was the last barrier between them and the front wall overlooking the street.

From the corner of his eye, Murphy caught one thug inching closer-a man with a scrap of a mustache that looked more like dirt. Murphy tightened his hold on the mob boss, bringing him into a headlock.

"You might take us down," he said loud enough for them all to hear, "but Mancini and the woman die first, guaranteed." Regina began to whimper. Murphy stared down the mustached thug, "You want to be the one to send your boss to his maker? I do."

"The way you'll send off the Associate?" Mancini rasped, clawing at Murphy's arm. "Kill me, and you'll never finish the job."

"We only need you for the name," Connor said. "We don't need her." This set Regina into hysterics. Mancini yelled at her to shut up.

Regina stopped crying abruptly. "If—if I tell you about him, the Associate, will you let us go?"

Mancini turned to her like she was something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. "Shut your fucking mouth, woman."

Regina jumped at his words.

"Tell us, and we won't hurt you," Connor told her, turning her away from Mancini.

Mustache thug was still creeping. "That's close enough," Murphy warned, making sure Mancini stayed between them as a shield.

Mancini struggled, trying to keep his eyes on Regina. "They won't shoot you anyway, they're weak! They don't shoot whores—but I DO, so shut your fucking-"

Murphy silenced him with a pistol-whip to the temple. The swarm of thugs crowded closer.

Regina sniffed. Mascara formed black trails down her cheeks. "I-I don't know his name, but-"

"See?" Mancini seethed. "She doesn't know his name. She doesn't know shit."

"I know you talked to him tonight! Carmen just talked to him, that's when he called in all these men. They talk all the time. He's always asking about the guy's dad-"

"Shut the FUCK UP!" Mancini was practically dancing with fury, and then a nearby noise caught his attention.

Murphy heard it too—music, a ringtone version of _Gangsta's Paradise._ It was coming from Mustache's suit. The thug glanced downward, distracted by it. After a minute of ringing, the thugs on either side of him looked, too.

"Go on, check it," Murphy told him. "It's probably important."

One by one, the cell phones of the men around him started to ring—some vibrating, some with ringtones. Apparently, big news from the Mancini camp.

Mancini watched his men with growing suspicion.

Then Murphy's own cell phone vibrated, and the mob boss lifted his chin from the H&K in surprise. His dark eyes strained to stare at Murphy behind his mask. "What the fuck have you done?"

The phone was buzzing in the rhythm he'd assigned to Seamus's texts. Things were so far beyond fucked up now, he'd actually forgotten their friends were creating the mother of all distractions. He'd never guessed the distraction would work in this particular way.

He didn't need to check the phone to guess Seamus's words: _It's done._

He imagined there was a bit more alarm in the thugs' messages.

With obvious effort, the Mustache was ignoring his glorious ringtone. Until it started again. He glanced at Mancini.

"Don't even fucking think about it," Mancini warned.

From the corner of his eye, Murphy saw several faces tilt downward and mouths drop open, lit brightly from below.

"_Get ready_," Murphy said in German, just loud enough so that his brother would hear him over Regina's whimpering.

The thug glanced around at the others, then at Murphy. His mustache twitched.

_Go on. _

Keeping his muzzle aimed in the general direction of Murphy, the thug reached quickly into his jacket pocket.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Mancini demanded.

Mustache read the screen. "Holy fuck," he breathed. Then Murphy's bullet blew through his heart and he collapsed, and with the dying twitch of his trigger finger set off the biggest fireworks Bay Village had ever seen.

Muzzle fire flashed like strobe. Chips of concrete flew. Murphy spun, sensing thugs crowding in on his open side. Shit, there were half a dozen of them. He landed center mass shots on one, then two-

_There's too many._

Yelling over the chaos, bracing for a hit, he fired as quick as he could. But number three must have had a vest and number four was closing in-

_Bang, bang!_

Three and Four hit the deck, skulls blown out by someone else's bullets.

_I fucking love you, Connor._

With Mancini's shouts ringing in his ears, Murphy felt his soul swell. He caught the heavy kick-back of the Beretta like the embrace of a long-lost friend, watching the motherfuckers fall one by one, starting that river flowing. Someone darted forward, and Murphy cut him down as he ran, tumbling him face-first into the steaming water.

Pain hit Murphy just above the elbow, ripping through his reverie. His left arm had managed to block a bullet that otherwise might have killed Mancini.

_Fuck._

He wrenched Mancini down and dragged him behind the hot tub, losing sight of Connor. Machine gun fire ripped through the night.

Mancini shouted to his men. Murphy still had him by the neck, but his injured arm was weakening, and he'd managed to pin himself next to the hot tub under the older's man weight. The fucker was solid, kicking and struggling with the force of a man half his age.

Movement to his right—Regina scrambling towards them, Connor behind her, backing in, pistols in both hands, raining fire on the army of mafiosos. Regina clambered to squeeze into the space behind a potted palm.

A thug rushed up, and it would have been over, but Murphy and the mob boss were too tangled for the guy to get a clear shot with his MP-5. He climbed up on the wall for a better angle, blasting Murphy's eardrums with the rapid burst. Mancini roared at him, struggling to break free of Murphy's grip. Murphy twisted to aim, at the same moment seeing Connor's arm extend right over the top of him, and their twin shots sent the mafioso flying backwards into thin air, dead before he even had the chance to scream.

Pain exploded in Murphy's hurt arm—Mancini must have noticed the blood, and the piece of shit was beating at the spot with all his strength. Murphy fought to keep hold of him as a cluster of thugs closed in on Connor.

They opened fire as Murphy stretched to back up his brother, managing to put a bullet through the eye socket of one of the attacking thugs before Mancini flung his head back, knocking Murphy so hard in the skull that he had to fight the stars. His hurt arm gave out. Something brushed his hand and a weight lifted…

A shot rang out. Concrete chips cut Murphy's cheek. His left hand was empty.

_The H&K. _

Murphy rolled toward the front wall, squeezing the Beretta tight in his fist as more shots split the air. He fired back as he came around, bringing the mob boss down with a shot to the ribs.

"Little help!" Connor shouted. Murphy turned and fired, making a bloody mess on his brother's jacket, but keeping him alive to complain about it.

Mancini groaned, squirming on the ground. The mean motherfucker just wouldn't stay down. There was no choice, Murphy had to finish it. He aimed for Mancini's skull.

And heard the soul-chilling click of an empty mag.

Mancini pushed himself up with a bloody grin as Murphy struggled to reload with one good hand. Mancini's grin warped into a snarl.

From somewhere behind the thugs came an amplified voice that startled anyone still breathing into a split-second's pause:

"POLICE! Cease fire and lower your weapons!"

Every gun fired at once.

Blood splattered the side of the hot tub. Regina's body slumped against it, red spreading across leopard print, a small purse pistol falling from her grip.

Murphy snatched it, spun, and put a bullet between Carmen Mancini's eyes.

"Fuck, yeah," Connor said, yanking him up by his collar. "Now, haul ass!"

The police seemed to be coming from the far deck, so they sprinted back the way they'd come in, hurtling over the walls, scrambling across the vacant deck while shots continued to blast behind them. Through the door, down the stairs they ran. Murphy took three seconds to throw the plank out the side window as a decoy, then they slipped out through the ground-floor back door into the night.

* * *

Leah waited for a crepe-paper covered truck going five miles an hour to pass the intersection, then she darted between parade floats, her med bag bouncing heavily.

Ortie had just shut the back door of the ambulance, backboard in hand.

"Dried him out?" he asked.

"Yeah, thank God. Gave him a band-aid, told him to sleep it off."

Ortie tossed the board back inside, then jogged over to the food stand on the corner.

"Mm, Zeppole…" Leah leaned over to his bundle of dough fritters dipped in powdered sugar. "Smells like happiness. I could use some of that."

"You don't want any. It'll go straight to your hips."

"Your hips are bigger than mine!"

"I've got more square footage for it to spread out. On you, the fat's concentrated. Like pure evil."

The radio squawked, hailing them. "Just one bite," Leah pleaded, then answered the radio.

"_Medic Seven-One, we have a man down, fall from a building. Stand by for address."_

"Great. Urban jumper." Leah hung her head. "There goes my happiness. Why don't they ever just call the coroner?"

"Here," Ortie said, hanging her the zeppole. "I can afford to buy more. I'm about to win a hundred and forty bucks."

...

* * *

"Jesus. Fucking. Christ." Murphy peeled his mask off, letting the wind from the open window blast through his sweaty hair. "That could have gone a bit smoother."

"I can't believe we're not dead. I can't believe you ended Mancini with a purse pistol."

"Yes, I fucking did." Murphy held it up and kissed it. "God bless the almighty fucking purse pistol."

"Where'd that thing come from?"

"Regina. He decided to kill her before he killed me."

"Poor choice."

"Not for me."

Connor bit the finger of a glove and slowly pulled it off, tossing it into the back. Gravelly blood seeped from his forearm and wrist, and a few spots in his palm, where broken glass had pierced the leather.

"You look like road kill," Murphy said.

"You should see my knees. I can feel my jeans stuck to them. I'll have to wear them in the shower to peel them off. Speaking of wet pants…did things get a little too real for you back there?"

Murphy cracked a grin. "It's from Mancini's shorts, jackass. I did not _piss myself_. Although I was close there, at the beginning. If you hadn't gotten those two soldiers boxing me in…"

"What soldiers? At the beginning, it was a fucking blitz. That was all you."

"No, before we went behind the hot tub, when I had a fucking army closing in on me. They would have had me, but you got them first—two sweet head shots. Then some motherfucker landed one in my arm."

"How bad is it?"

Murphy showed him. "I think it went through. You're gonna have to look at it."

"It's still bleeding."

"Watch the road, man, it's not that bad. Or it wasn't. Fucking Mancini beat the shit out of it after we sent that mafioso over the wall."

"That was beautiful."

"It was, wasn't it? Needed some theme music playing."

"Seriously, those head shots-you must have fired faster than you thought, because my bullets were flying at anything and everything in front of me—but not in front of you."

"You sure?"

"Absolutely. Believe me, I'd take credit for that shit. It wasn't me."

* * *

"Four cruisers for a jumper, wow," Leah said as they pulled up. It was an unusual amount of cops, even for a festival night.

A yellow police line blocked off an entire property, stretching from the unit on the left, around two gaslamps, and then tying off at the steps of the unit on the right.

"Something's going on," Ortie said, "or they would have cancelled us by now."

Another cruiser arrived, and two uniformed officers hurried past, under the tape, and up the steps into the town home.

There wasn't much of a crowd around the body, and as Leah approached, the reason was clear—it was too awful to look at. Three cops were guarding the body and handling the bystanders.

One of them saw the medics and motioned them over. "I'll take you up," he said, meeting them at the front steps. "He's on the roof."

"Who?" Leah asked, glancing back at the body before he hurried them up the first flight of stairs.

"Didn't you hear the call?"

An officer coming down the stairs moved to the side when he saw Leah, radioing as they passed that medics were "on their way up now."

"We got called for a jumper," Ortie said, taking the stairs two at a time. "Who's on the roof?"

"I don't know who, but it's one of us. We got an officer down."

...

* * *

...


	42. The Price

**[Chapter 42: The Price]**

The officers – the ones not busy with corralling witnesses or guarding the dead body – all took grim notice of Leah and Ortie as they hurried up flight after flight of stairs. Along the way, her eyes scanned everything, her mind instinctually cataloging people and faces, high-dollar gaudy décor, the odor of sweat and cologne, a white furry robe, hot pink house slippers.

Her memory reached further, making notes and patterns that lined up like tally marks: _Bay Village. Town house. Mistress. Mafiosos._

She hadn't been called upstairs for mafiosos.

She should have known it was a bad sign when she recognized a Southie cop guarding the door to the rooftop. Officer Mitchell saw Leah through the glass as they jogged up the stairs, and pulled the door open before they reached the top. His face was ashen. He pointed them to the right side of the roof, where a group of officers clustered around a chaise lounge on the neighboring deck.

"Hurry," Mitchell told her. "It's not good."

Greenly broke from the cluster and took her med bag as she climbed over the low privacy wall.

"They're holding pressure on it," he told her, "but it's his neck, so..."

The cluster parted, enveloping her, revealing the dark pants and shoes of a man propped up on the lounge chair. Another man, also dressed in black, blocked her view, kneeling at the patient's side.

"Give us some room, please," she said, snapping on neoprene gloves. The cluster widened.

The kneeling man turned-it was Agent Smecker, pressing a red-soaked towel to the prone man's neck. He shifted to give her access, and she saw the injured man's pale, red-smeared face.

"Tom?"

The detective's eyes slid to her, struggling to focus.

_He's a good man._

_Maybe your friends aren't who you think they are._

She took a quick breath. "Let's get a BP, and prep a line."

"On it," Ortie said. Mike Chaffey got out of his way, struggling to his feet on Duffy's other side, gripping the back of the chair, looking sick.

Ortie cut Duffy's shirt off. Blood streamed from the material as Ortie laid it aside; Duffy had to have lost at least a pint already.

"Tom," she said again, finding a radial pulse. Blood was caked in the creases of his hand, probably from trying to stop his own bleeding. "Weak and rapid," she told Ortie. "Can you hear me, Tom?"

Duffy struggled to inhale, nodding very slightly. He was still conscious—barely.

"Is this his only injury?"

"Yeah," Chaffey said. "Happened right over there. He tried to get up once the shooting stopped, made it as far as this chair." He indicated the smeared blood on the concrete.

"We had to secure the cease-fire before we could…" Smecker cleared his throat, frowning. "…before he let us know how bad it was."

"Don't worry, Tom," she said, "we're going to do everything we can. Just need you to sit still, think you can do that for me?"

He attempted a smile with blue-tinged lips, and she saw that there was blood along his gumline.

"Relax, don't try to talk." Wincing, he let his eyes close. "Greenly, help me lay the chair flat. Ready, Agent Smecker?"

"I've got him." They eased him back, then Smecker removed the towel and quickly showed her the wound. She wiped blood from the entry point, clearing the view, eliciting a groan from Duffy. Bright red blood pulsed from the torn skin.

She slid quickly into Smecker's position. "Think we nicked an artery," she said, using her gloved hand to press the wound instead of a towel, to lessen the chance of air entering the opened vessel. Duffy's eyes rolled back and his jaw went slack. Mumbled swearing and concerns sounded from their hovering audience.

"Duffy!" Smecker said.

Her eyes snapped to Ortie's. _We're running out of time._ "Do we have a BP?"

"80-palp."

"We've got to stop this bleeding." Her hand was cramping, but she pressed as hard as she could without crushing his trachea.

"Hold the fluid?" Ortie asked.

"Yeah, for now. Let's tape it up tight, and get him on the bus."

Smecker stepped out of the way as Leah and Ortie secured a bandage, wrapping and taping up over the top of Duffy's head and under his arm.

"Aren't you starting an IV?" Chaffey asked.

"As soon as it's safe. Raising his pressure's only going to make him bleed faster at this point. How long since the injury occurred?"

Smecker paced at the head of the chair. Chaffey watched him, a dark look on his young face.

"Too long," Smecker muttered. He wiped blood from his watch to see the time. "About five minutes."

"Seems a lot fucking longer," Greenly said.

"It always does." She scanned the surrounding rooftop. The group had grown; there were more uniforms and a few firefighters. "Is there an elevator?" she asked. "Or a wider staircase than the one I came up?"

"There's one for each townhouse," one of the firefighters answered, "but they're all the same size."

"We'll take this one. All of you – go clear a path. We need doors open and stairways clear."

"The turns are real tight on those landings," Ortie reminded her. "Backboard's going to suck, but getting the stair-chair's gonna cost us minutes."

"Can you carry him?"

"Easy."

"Do it. I'll stabilize." One of the cops carried her med bag down, and a firefighter volunteered to drive so Ortie could stay in the back to help.

….

Firefighters had the gurney ready, and with so many helping hands, the gurney was practically levitating when Ortie laid the unconscious detective out. A car jerked to a stop right next to them. A heavyset man in a trench coat jumped out, pushing through the circle of emergency workers.

"Oh, shit. Fuck, how did this…" He was forced to step back as they slid the gurney into the ambulance.

Ortie climbed inside and backed across the floor, guiding it in and securing it. The man in the trench coat grabbed the door handle and began to climb in.

"In the cab," Ortie told him. He hated having to say it, but there was barely enough room for the two medics as it was.

"I'm his partner, Detective Doll.." He stumbled on his own name, his expression pure pain. "I'm his fucking partner. Please, Leah-"

"Dolly, I'm sorry. We have to be able to work. You ride up front."

Doors slammed from all sides, and he and Leah got to work, hooking up monitors and hanging fluids as the sirens began to wail.

"BP's dropped," Ortie told her. "We have to open the line."

"Damn. Okay, I've got pressure on the wound. Try to start another line, a 14 if you can."

Suddenly, she bent low. "He's awake." The patient lifted his hand, reaching for the oxygen mask.

"Just relax," Leah told him. "You need to leave this on—"

He turned his head, gripping her arm with one hand, grabbing at the mask with the other. She lifted it for him.

"Tell Smecker…" he managed to say, before stopping, his face contorting.

"You'll see Smecker at the hospital. You can tell him yourself." She looked back at Ortie. "Heart rate's spiked. How's that IV coming?"

"One and done."

"Good. Hang on for us, Tom."

Duffy focused hard on Leah's face. He rasped something that Ortie couldn't make out.

"Yes," Leah said after a moment. She didn't sound like herself. "I did, I'm sorry."

Ortie looked up from securing the IV to see her bend lower, listening.

"What do you mean?" she asked Duffy. "Is that who-"

The heart monitor began beeping like crazy. Ortie pushed the fluids.

Duffy's fingers released her arm, dropping limply to his side.

"Tom. _Tom._" Leah snapped the oxygen mask back on. Blood poured from the saturated bandage. "Ortie, hand me the trach kit."

He hesitated. "Is there damage to the airway?"

"No, I'm going to try a cut down. Hurry."

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked, handing her the scalpel. "Leah, they'll take your license for going outside of scope."

Holding the patient's head steady through the jostling of the ambulance, she sliced carefully into the skin below the wound.

"Suction."

Ortie cleared the leaking blood away, letting her push the soft tissue aside to locate the undamaged section of artery. He handed her forceps and she clamped it off, and immediately the bleeding slowed.

"Nice."

They packed and re-bandaged it, waiting for a change on the monitors, waiting for some indication that it had made a difference, that it wasn't too late.

The pressure alarm sounded. "BP's unreadable," Ortie said quietly.

Leah pressed her fingers to Duffy's neck. "Damn it!" She moved her fingers over slightly, pressing harder, closing her eyes.

Ortie squeezed the fluid bag, trying to ignore the detective at the cab window, watching his partner bleed to death. "Can you get a pulse?"

"Nothing."

Ortie prepped a needle, bracing as the ambulance banked for a turn.

"Pushing epi."

Blood streaked across the floor.

"P.E.A."

Leah wedged her feet against the cabinets, leaning over the patient. "Starting compressions."

She pumped Duffy's chest, leaning her whole body into it, her breath coming out in huffs as she counted.

"Come on," he heard Dolly say.

The beeps on the heart monitor began to slow.

Ortie spread his legs for balance and tilted his body over the gurney, taking over compressions while Leah started respirations. The monitor alarm sounded, high pitched and constant.

"Asystole."

Leah placed her stacked hands alongside Ortie's to take her next turn. Sweat shook from her forehead, making pale little dots on the cop's blood-smeared breastbone. His eyes were half-open, fixed on nothing, or maybe on something none of the rest of them could see.

The monitor alarm continued to whine. Ortie forced himself to leave it. He felt the hollowness fighting its way in, and had to focus on the six-inch square of chest, on her hands, and then his, then hers again. He lost count of how many turns they took in the remaining minutes of the drive, knowing at some point that it was beyond their reach; knowing that they wouldn't call it during the drive. They would work him all the way in, riding out the bumps and the turns and the ribs cracking beneath their palms, pretending they weren't seeing the harrowed face crumbling at the cab window.

...


	43. Aftermath

**[Chapter 43: Aftermath]**

Their third round was on its way when Murphy's phone rang.

He showed Connor the 'S' on the screen and held out his fist for rock-paper-scissors.

"Fuck, no," Connor said. "It's your phone ringing."

"'Cause we've got two now. He probably flipped a coin."

"Yeah, and you lost. Answer it, before it goes to voicemail."

"Oops. Damn."

Connor flicked him on the ear as his own phone began to ring.

Murphy snatched it and answered for him, slipping off his stool and taking the call outside. Connor went after him, gesturing to Paulette to pour another round.

Murphy stopped dead before he reached the door.

A wrinkle of dread tripped up Connor's gait.

Murphy hunched forward, putting a hand over one ear. "What? Say that again."

Connor went around him. He didn't like the way Murphy's expression matched his tone. _What is it?_

Murphy stared through him, shaking his head. "Fuck," he muttered. "How? I mean—why were you…?"

He pointed irritably to the door, which Connor held open for him, and then it took Murphy a good minute and a half to walk through it.

By the time they were outside, the call had ended. Murphy stood there, staring down at his thumb over the call button.

Connor took the phone from his hand. "Murph."

"Duffy's dead."

_Duffy's dead._

He heard the words, but they didn't make sense.

_Duffy's dead._

"Who was on the phone, Smecker?" Connor opened the phone, looked up the most recent call to verify it. _Duffy's dead._ "Our Duffy?"

Murphy watched him, biting on the edge of his thumb.

"Dead—as in…?"

"_Muerto. Il est mort. Er ist tot."_ Murphy tapped his pack of smokes against his leg, shaking out two, lighting them with his one good hand. _"Tá sé marbh, _Con_."_

Connor paced, as a shadow crossed in front of the moon. "Christ. Jesus Christ. How?"

"Shot. The two of them followed some soldiers up."

"_Up_." He backed up against the brick wall, not wanting the shadow catch him, but it closed in from all sides. It fell on him, heavy on his chest.

The door busted open behind them and Murphy stepped closer to let the group of people pass. "Aye, _up_, to the goddamn fucking roof."

"Jesus fucking Christ. What were they doing?"

"Smecker didn't say, he had to go. I'm sure it's a fucking mess down there." He sucked both smokes, then pinched one in his lips and held out the other. "Do you want this or not?"

Connor took it. The taste turned his stomach. "He's got a wife."

"Daughter, too."

Murphy stood beside him, looking out at the street.

"Shot where?" Connor asked. "Not that it fucking matters."

"I didn't ask."

They stayed outside until Paulette came to look for them.

Doc saved them from her questions by turning up the volume on the bar TV. Paulette served them their beer and then turned to watch the Channel 22 breaking news update.

"_And now we take you to Sally McBride, reporting live from the scene where horrific violence erupted earlier tonight in the normally quiet neighborhood of Bay Village."_

The camera cut to the grim reporter, poised in front of the yellow police tape wrapped around a gaslamp.

"_It's a tragic update to an already shocking story—in addition to almost a dozen people, many of them associated with the Mancini family, found brutally murdered atop the upscale townhome behind me, we've now learned that another life was lost—And the South Boston Police Department will mourn one of their own._

"_It appears an officer was wounded responding to the outbreak of violence. Police are not yet releasing the details of the incident, but one of the building residents was able to capture this video with a mobile device." _

The screen cut to a shaky video focused on a cluster of police officers guarding something on the sidewalk behind the police tape. In the background of the shot, the front door opened inward. Immediately, the camera shifted and tried to zoom in. It grew increasingly pixilated, and even though video was dark and blurry, the bandaged body being carried down the steps was unmistakably Duffy's.

He was visible for less than a second, only from the moment the door opened until the tall man carrying him reached the bottom step and disappeared into a cluster of police officers and firefighters. Then a dark car pulled up to the scene, blocking the camera's shot of the waiting ambulance, and the video clip ended just as a tan trench coat filled the screen.

"_Unfortunately, despite the efforts of emergency workers who rushed him to a local hospital, we have learned that the officer did not survive. His name will be released once the department has contacted the family."_

The video clip repeated over and over as she spoke, and then the camera cut back to Sally, and she went on about Chestnut Hill, and then at the end of her report they showed the video clip again, and it wasn't until that last time that Connor saw it, just to the left of the tall paramedic's shoulder—a blonde ponytail.

Connor closed his eyes.

Murphy's leg tapped against his. He'd seen it, too.

The news cut to commercial, and the relative silence that had settled over the bar ended. Someone started complaining that they were missing the end of the game and Doc changed the channel back, grumbling.

Paulette came over, her brows constricting at the sight of their untouched pints. She studied them for a moment, then walked over to the mirrored shelf of liquor bottles and brought back the Jameson and two shot glasses. Connor held up three fingers. She brought another shot glass, but Murphy shook his head, gesturing for a fourth, reminding Connor with a somber look.

Paulette poured the shots.

They threw back one shot each, leaving the other two exactly where they stood.

The whiskey made Connor's eyes burn.

* * *

Murphy began to mutter to himself in Spanish, but he couldn't get the swear words right. "It's fucking bullshit, Con. We fucking called it off. We lied our fucking asses off."

"I need to go see her." Connor slid off his stool. "You coming?"

"Con. What are you going to say? Honestly. Are you going to tell her it's not her fault? She knows that."

"You don't have to go," Connor said. "You can stay home."

"I can stay here."

"Murph. It's late. I might not be back by-"

"By the time Doc closes? Holy. Shit."

"Don't." It wasn't an order, it was a plea.

Murphy downed the rest of his beer, unable to look at his brother. "I'm sorry, man. It's cool. Do whatever the fuck you need to do." Paulette wandered into his gaze, bringing a fresh pint. "I'm doing this."

"It's all right, Connor," Paulette said, "We'll call him a cab when he's ready."

"Go on," Murphy said to him, "Tell her I said hi. Tell her thanks for trying." He rubbed a hand over his face. "Fucking better luck next time."

Connor's hand fell on his shoulder. Murphy's head dropped.

"I'll see you in a bit," Connor said.

Murphy drank the next pint without uttering a single word to anyone. Paulette came, wiping the bar down in front of him. He pushed his empty glass toward her.

The freckles on her nose squished together. "Murphy, I don't know if that's a good idea."

Doc appeared, leering at him through bug eyed glasses.

"Come on, Doc," Murphy said, "I told you about my arm, yeah? Little accident. It's fucking killing me."

Paulette began filling another fresh glass.

Doc laid his wrinkled hand over hers on the tap handle. "I said no. C-close out his tab. He's had enough."

"Aye," Murphy said, sliding off his barstool. "You're right. I've fucking had enough." He tossed some bills on the counter and made his way to the exit, cursing Doc's slippery, uneven wood floor.

Outside, Murphy couldn't help scanning for the LTD. Pain surged through his arm when he reached the street.

"Ow, fuck, Paulette."

"Sorry! Wrong arm."

"Listen, tell Doc the rest of the tab's going to have to wait." He looked at her, wanting her to listen. "Tell him I'm sorry."

"It's not that. I just wanted to give you this." She held out a small plastic bottle. "It's for the pain," she said, "for your arm." And then she rambled something about getting her wisdom teeth out and that he probably shouldn't do something until tomorrow when he was sober.

"Okay, love," he said, letting her slip it into his coat pocket. Her round cheek was right next to his, so he gave it a little kiss. "You're a doll."

She touched her cheek and said something about a cab, which he waved off, and then she was gone, and he was alone. Connor was probably at Leah's by now, trying to make it all better.

_We were there, Tom and I. We followed Mancini's men, we saw the ambush. We couldn't just stand by and watch._

Murphy held up the pill bottle. It was too dark to read it until he was down the block in front of the liquor store, and by then he didn't give a shit.

The child lock cap made his arm want to explode, so he wedged it between his knees and twisted and pushed until the cap came off and fell, and rolled into the street.

The pills were dry and didn't go down easy.

The liquor store was closed.

His feet found their way to the church. He was thirsty, and there was a drinking fountain in the lobby.

When did they start locking the church?

Dunkies might be open. He could take the bus. There was a bus stop not far. There was a guy on the bench already, sleeping. Shit, did the bus run this late? No, the sleeping guy said. He was mad about something, so Murphy kept walking, letting him keep his fucking bench.

It felt like the pills had lodged in his throat. They sure weren't doing shit for his arm. The sling had loosened and it ached more hanging on its own. He cradled it with his right hand. Hours ago it had been perfectly intact.

Fucking Mancini.

A row of apartments had scaffolding set up along the sidewalk and he walked under it, looking up, watching the planks go by.

Mancini had known, and he'd sat up there waiting for them.

_Who do you think told me you were coming?_

The fucking Associate.

Duffy? Beckman? Had Beckman's stakeout been an act? The details drifted further each time his brain tried to retrieve them.

A siren whooped, and a cop car made a u-turn, bearing down on him with its blinding lights. His knees struck something hard, and he barely caught himself with his good hand.

The cop car passed, uninterested in him. He was safe. He was fine.

Fuck.

_The head shots._

Murphy rocked back, closing his eyes. He saw it, the way they'd fallen, the way the force had blown them from behind. It couldn't have been Connor. If it had been Smecker, he would have said something.

_I didn't see it when it happened. We had good cover. There was no reason…_

Murphy got up slowly, wiping sidewalk grit on his jeans.

Fucking Smecker. Fucking Connor. Fucking Leah.

Fucking Duffy.

Finally, there it was-the weirdly cheery pink and orange sign. Only the sign was lit. The store was dark.

Someone had poured concrete in his boots. His arm throbbed in the background now, like there was a curtain in front of it, a lead curtain, obscuring the pain. His thigh ached from walking.

There was no one sleeping on the Dunkie's bench. He sat, staring across the street. One-Eyed Jake's was dark, too. Annie would be up there. She'd be pissed if he came knocking. He should call first. It rang and rang, and then the ringing echoed louder.

_You stupid fuck._ Her phone was ringing in his pocket.

He juggled both phones, dropping his, pushing button after button on hers, struggling to silence it.

_What, are you afraid she'll hear it and come outside? Isn't that what you want? You walked all the way down here. You knew this Dunkie's closed at eleven._

He could call the shop. Pound on the door. Throw rocks at the damn windows.

She'd talked to Duffy yesterday, about DNA evidence. To protect Murphy? Or to get him caught? Duffy hadn't been able to tell her anything. She was probably still waiting for answers.

_If you see her, you'll have to tell her._

Five missed calls on her phone. Who else had been calling? _Do you really want to know?_ A flick of his thumb, another self-inflicted wound.

A car slowed, stopping in front of the shop.

Annie. She wasn't asleep. She was right there on the sidewalk, getting out of the car, dressed in all black: jacket, jeans, tall boots. Murphy slouched into the shadow of the awning.

There was something about that car, something wrong. _That's the cop's car_. Pain pushed on his chest, sharp and penetrating.

Beckman. He walked around the car, waiting while she unlocked the shop door. She went inside. Holding the door, Beckman turned around to glance up the street one way, and then the other. Then he followed her in.

Murphy watched the lights downstairs come on, and then go off, and the lights upstairs come on, glowing softly behind the yellowed butcher paper. He waited for Beckman to come back outside. He waited for six full cigarettes.

The empty pack crumpled in his fist like a submarine fallen into a bottomless trench. It couldn't pressurize. It couldn't stop the implosion.

Another set of headlights approached. He prayed to God and all the saints it was the LTD.

It was a cruiser. It slowed but didn't stop, passing on, red taillights receding into darkness.

His eyes were heavy, heavier than his boots. He wanted to close them, just for a minute, but he knew what would happen, he knew what he would see, and he fought it harder than he'd fought for anything that night.

_Duffy, did you fight it?_

_..._

* * *

A rumble and a hiss, and the squeak of a door folding open. Murphy winced, opening one eye. A raisin of a man peered down at him.

The sky was white, bright like a blank movie screen. He strained to lift his head. His skin was clammy. He had to piss like a motherfucker. Good Lord, had he passed out at bus stop? Someone walked by him, smelling of coffee. He got to his feet, piecing it together. He hadn't passed out at a bus stop, he'd passed out at Dunkie's. Which was now open.

Which had not been open last night.

The facts assaulted him, one after another, like rapid fire from an MP-5.

"You all right, son?"

When the worst of it sank in, he let go of the bus door, taking a few steps to see the street beyond the front of the bus. Beckman's car was gone.

"Sonny, don't you get on this bus if you're going to be sick."

"I can't stay here."

"Well then, are you getting in or what?"

"Aye. Take me home."

...


	44. Awake

**Author's Note: **_So I know the last few chapters were hard to get through. I'm sorry. Please understand it was done with intention, and not on a whim. I know you guys are as invested as I am (ok, maybe not all of you...) and I do not take these things lightly! So, please forgive, and do keep reading, and know that I believe in happy endings - or at least satisfying and bittersweet._

**[Chapter 44: Awake]**

There wasn't a traditional doorbell at BEMS Station Seven, but rather an intercom system that revealed to Connor how little he'd thought this idea through.

"Can I help you?" a deep male voice asked through the silver box.

"I was hoping to talk to Leah. Solomon. If she's here. If she's awake. It's late, I know."

A pause. God help him if there were any cops around, or anyone wielding a breathalyzer…

"Who's asking?"

"I'm a friend. Tell her it's Connor. MacManus."

A minute later, the door opened and Connor looked up, way up, at the man who had carried Duffy down those stairs.

"Hold on." The door closed again.

Connor took stock of the neighborhood around the station. It was quiet.

In his head, he could hear the way Leah said Duffy's name-the doubt that was always in her voice.

_Maybe your friends aren't who you think they are._

Murphy was right, what the hell did he think he was going to say to her?

The door swung open. Leah's uniform shirt was untucked.

"Hi," Connor said. "Sorry, it's late. How're you doing?"

"Okay." Her gaze was direct, her tone coldly efficient. "How are you?"

"I've been better. Leah, I heard."

"You heard."

"Aye."

A backward glance. "They haven't released his name, yet. They're still notifying family."

"Can I come in?"

Her fingers tapped the tools in her cargo pockets. "I don't know, Connor. It's late."

"I know it's late. Phone calls like the one I just got don't seem to happen in the daylight hours."

Her face didn't change. "Statistically, it's about the same."

He looked down, fighting a smile that felt very inappropriate. "Look, I know you're fine here. I just wanted to let you know you've got a place to stay, when you need it."

Her eyes narrowed a fraction. She glanced into the room behind her. "Why don't you come inside for a minute?" She locked the door behind him, then led the way through a common area and the watchful gaze of her partner, then down a hallway into a bedroom lit with a desk lamp and a glaring computer screen.

"Have a seat. Take a load off." She gestured to an uncomfortable looking guest chair.

"Thanks, I'd rather stand."

"Fine," she said, walking around him to the shut the door, and then taking the swivel chair at the desk. "What do you know about me needing a place to stay?"

"It doesn't matter how. It's true, isn't it?" He hadn't even considered how to explain it.

"Connor. It matters to me."

Hands in his jacket pockets, he wandered the room, glancing over certificates on the walls, post-its on the desk, a red stapler, an empty stainless steel wastebasket, a printer with a blinking yellow light.

"You've got a good set-up here," he said, "Safe enough, with the Hulk out there standing guard, but your apartment—you shouldn't go back there alone."

"Who'd you talk to, Chaffey? Mitchell?" She picked up the stapler and squeezed it as she said their names, letting the staples fall onto the desk.

He couldn't do it. He was so, so tired of lying. "No, Leah. Not Chaffey or Mitchell. Or Gerard."

"I see," she said, setting down the stapler. "I guess you do answer your phone. Just not when it's me calling."

"It's not like that. I couldn't answer when you needed me, and I'm sorry. I'm glad a friend of mine was able to help. He told me what happened."

Her eyes were still on the stapler. It wasn't perfectly parallel with the laptop, and she readjusted it, almost too quickly for him to see the tremor in her hand.

"Well, coming down here was a nice gesture. Tell him I appreciate the concern-"

"It's my concern, Leah." He moved closer, forcing her to look at him. "Mine."

She tightened her ponytail, saying nothing, giving him nothing in the way of a response.

He turned, finding himself in front of the bed. "Will you stay here all night?" The bed was made as neatly as the one in her apartment had been.

"My shift's over at eight a.m."

"Won't they send you home after something like this?"

The bent staples were still lying on the desk. She tweezed one up with her fingernails and dropped it into the wastebasket. "Something like…when a patient dies in my care?"

"When it's someone you know, Leah. Christ."

"I've been a medic a long time. It happens." She turned to the computer screen and typed something.

"You knew him."

"_You_ knew him."

He'd thought so. He followed the cursor on the monitor. "How did it happen?"

She fixed him with a look that might have made another man apologize. "Generally, gun shot wounds are caused by guns, but since I wasn't there, that's just a working theory."

"Leah-"

"Connor." She swiveled her chair to fully face him. "Even _if_ I knew, I'd be violating HIPAA and compromising a homicide investigation by telling you."

"Jesus, you're writing the damn report right now. You can't throw me a fucking bone?"

"That's why you came, isn't it? This is my job. Talking you through your grief process isn't." She turned to the screen again, ignoring him even as he took paper from the printer and a pencil from the jar, wrote down his address, and pulled a lighter from his pocket.

She looked up when the paper started to burn.

It would only take her a second to read it, and she had three, before the whole page was in flames. He tossed it in the bin and walked out.

* * *

Last call was already over when Connor got back to Doc's.

"You said you'd call him a cab," he said when Paulette told him Murphy had walked.

"She can't lead a horse to take a fucking cab if he doesn't want to drink," Doc said. "We can't be responsible for—for him, anymore more than you can—Fuck! Ass!"

Doc's finger was wagging at him, and he seemed more tongue-tied than Connor had ever seen him.

"You know what the fuck I mean, boy," the old man said, eyes narrowed behind his thick glasses.

Connor took a step back. "I hear you, Doc." He turned and left, ignoring the shouts of friends.

_Let that motherfucking wop soak it up on the evening news_, Seamus had said. Mancini was dead before it aired, but Doc and the rest of Boston had received that message loud and clear. Doc had hidden that Escalade for them in good faith.

Everywhere Connor turned, another bridge was burning.

He looked for Murphy the entire drive home, and then cruised the neighboring streets a few more times, until the echo of Murphy calling him a mother hen grew so loud he drove home, just to make it stop.

He carried the liquor store bags in, calling to his brother. He checked his phone; no calls. He dialed Murphy and got no answer. It seemed doubtful, only because Paulette would surely have mentioned it, but maybe he'd gone home with someone.

_It's cool. Do whatever the fuck you need to do._

He put the beer in the fridge, and took the whiskey with him to the couch. He turned on the TV, saw a talking head at a news desk, and turned it off again.

The bottle seal broke easily. The glass rim touched his lip and he paused, smelling it.

If Murphy called, needing a ride…

Fuck.

He screwed the cap back on and tried the TV again, pushing the remote button repeatedly as it warmed up, making the channel change before the sound started. It landed on a Spanish game show, hosted by a big-haired woman whose chest was about to bounce out of her dress. He cranked the volume, but all he could hear was Sally McBride.

….

When the game show ended, and the talking head popped back on to the screen, he muted it and pushed off the couch, bringing the bottle with him, taking a swig before Smart Connor could stop him.

In his room, he kicked off his boots, eyeing the duffel bag by the closet. He could really use some cold metal in his hands, but something stopped him from crossing the floor and pulling that zipper.

How had Duffy gotten shot? He and Smecker would have come up the stairs, following Mancini's men, seen the Saints, seen it was an ambush. They would have split up, spread out, picked the soldiers off from behind. None of Mancini's men would have been firing in his direction.

The air in his room felt thick. He dropped the bottle on the bed, stood on the bedpost, and opened the window, small and high, that carried in the breeze and the sound of footsteps on the pavement below. Forgetting the cuts on his hands, he grasped the window sill and looked down at the circle of yellow cast by the streetlight. It was empty.

He should have seen them on that rooftop. Murphy was the one with darkness issues. Connor had always been the eyes for both of them.

He turned around, a bit off-balance on the soft old bed. The duffel bag lurked. He imagined it ticking, like a bomb.

Smecker hadn't seen Duffy get shot. But he must have seen Duffy after. He must have tried to help him. Smecker would blame himself. No matter the circumstances, Smecker would take responsibility.

He'd have to explain himself to the department. To Greenly, and to Dolly.

God, Dolly.

Connor's shoulders hit the wall and he slid down the corner, reaching for the bottle beside him. He tipped the bottle side to side, making patterns of little blood dots on the label with his palms, watching the amber liquid slosh, running down inside the glass in blonde streams.

He shouldn't have gone to see Leah.

The cap came off in his hand.

A sudden knocking made him pull the bottle from his lips. _Murph._

His throat burned, all the way to the door.

He unlocked both locks and pulled it open.

Leah.

He blinked, just to make sure it wasn't the whiskey talking. She had a bag slung over her shoulder, the one she'd packed that night in her apartment.

"I don't want to talk about it," she said.

He stepped back and let her in.

* * *

She looked at his bottle and he looked at her bag.

"It's not an overnight bag," she said, "It's an anywhere bag. I keep one in my car. It's not an overnight bag."

"Aye, I got that part."

"I have one at work too, in case I take overtime at another station."

"So you can sleep anywhere."

They were standing in his tiny linoleum entryway. The only movement was the slight swing of his whiskey bottle and the unstoppable running of her mouth. She shrugged, "Always be prepared."

He gave her a three-finger salute, and then watched her as she took in her new surroundings. "Wasn't expecting visitors…" he said.

"No, of course not."

The TV behind him was muted, on a commercial with a little bald girl holding a stuffed bear in a hospital bed. Around the living room, discarded clothing, newspapers, beer bottles, and dishes cluttered a décor that looked like Austin Powers: The Retirement Years.

In her mind, she sped through a thousand simultaneous tasks of cleaning.

"Something to drink?" he asked.

"I shouldn't."

"No, you probably shouldn't. " He sauntered past most of the mess to pick up a peacoat and some hats and gloves that he tucked into a bundle. "Beer's in the fridge," he said, pointing her toward a galley kitchen before taking his clothes into what she assumed was a bedroom. He didn't offer to give a tour.

There were two cans of Guinness and a case of Harp. A few condiments and questionable boxes of leftovers. No water, no soda, no gallon of milk. She took a Harp.

He came in and caught the door before she closed it, taking a Harp for himself. At the far end of the kitchen there was a window with a missing screen that had been pulled out and propped against the wall below it. Connor set his beer on the window sill and patted his pockets. He was in the same gray thermal henley he'd worn to her station, but now the sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, framing the tattoos on his forearms.

Just as his hand closed around what she knew were his cigarettes, he looked up at her. Something flickered in his eyes, and he picked up his beer instead.

"What made you change your mind?" he asked.

Leah looked down, at an odd square of linoleum that was brighter than all the others. "They sent me home. Like you said. You weren't sleeping, were you?"

Connor glanced at his watch and swore.

"I'm keeping you up, I'm sorry, I-"

"You're not. I thought Murph would be back by now, is all."

"Is he waiting for a ride?" _Please, God, don't make me fight him for the keys._

"Nah, he's not waiting." He started to run a hand through his hair and then stopped, looking down at a mess of scrapes on his hand. "Murph's fine. He'll be fine."

"You kind of are a boy scout, aren't you?"

He gave her a look and went to the sink to wash his hands. He looked beat. She hadn't noticed when he'd come to the station. The picture of his address, engulfed in flame, flashed in her mind. No one had ever used her snapshot memory like that before. Not on purpose.

"Do you get cold?" he asked. "The blanket on the bed's all right, but I think there's an extra one somewhere."

"Oh, no. I don't need to sleep in your bed."

"It's fine. I like the couch better anyway."

"That's not what I mean. I mean—thank you—but…" It never got any easier to explain. "I can't…I don't sleep well at other people's houses."

He dried his hands carefully on a towel, seeming to get more from that explanation than she intended. "Thought you could sleep anywhere."

"It's more like I can stay anywhere. Sleeping doesn't happen. If you put me up in your bed, I'll just be lying in there, thinking about…" _You, your hands, the lies you tell me, the friends you hide…_

"Things you'd rather stay awake and avoid."

She shrugged. "There's no reason to give up your bed. I'll just watch TV."

"You speak Spanish?"

"No."

He looked at his watch. "Then I'm glad you're here. We can stay up, and not-sleep together."

She swerved around that one by tapping the bright square of flooring with her toe. "What's the story here?"

"You ought to know. It's your doing."

"Magic Eraser?"

"I think of you every time I see it."

"But you stopped with one square."

"Well, if the whole thing was clean, how would I see it?"

She peeked in the cabinet under the sink. _Aha_. She pulled a white sponge from the box, wet it, and started on the square upper-left of the clean one. She moved clockwise, until she'd cleaned the eight squares around the first one. Now it was still a single clean square, but bigger.

Connor's boots moved around her to the fridge, and she stopped scrubbing as the reality of what she was doing sank in.

"I'm sorry," she said, staring at the floor, "I should have asked."

"Damn right you should've. I was going to do it in a checker pattern, like an old diner, but now..."

She could hear a smile in his voice. Tentatively, she began to scrub another square. "There's three more in the box, you know."

"I couldn't deprive you of the pleasure."

"We could share it."

"I've plenty of pleasure right here. Cold beer, conversation, breathtaking view…"

She glanced down at her neckline and immediately sat up. He chuckled.

"That's what I get for trying to clean up after you."

"Never asked you to," he said, his tone light, but with an underlying edge that made her get up and rinse the eraser in the sink.

She could hear him behind her, taking glassware down from cupboards.

When she turned around, he was holding two glasses – one of beer, one a shot of whiskey.

"Are we celebrating something?"

"A job well done."

Their eyes met for a moment before he turned his attention to the clean spot on the floor.

She hadn't imagined it. There'd been a vein of irony in his words that was as dark as the sky outside. She couldn't respond. No matter how they played at avoiding it, there was a very real reason she was here right now. A reason she'd been gracelessly relieved of duty in the middle of her shift.

A silence stretched between them, each ticking second carving out the accusation.

"Come on," he said softly, offering the amber shot again. "To the end of a hard day."

Total one-eighty. There was no defense against the accent. He was sincere as a Sunday morning preacher.

She dried her hands and laid the towel on the counter, doubting her decision to come here, wishing she knew how to read him.

"Connor, I said don't want to talk about it."

"We're not talking. We're drinking." Her fingers brushed his calluses as he handed her the glass.

"No bread, milk, or eggs in the house, but you have whiskey and beer."

"I have Jameson and Harp. And you have some catching up to do." He moved closer, and she caught the sweet aroma on his breath, and wondered how far she would need to go.

"This is how boy scouts in Ireland do it?"

"We got kicked out of scouts. This is how MacManuses do it."

"Well, I'm not a MacManus."

"Quit stalling like a girl and take your shot."

She threw it back, slammed the glass down, and wiped her mouth.

"There now," he said, pulling a deck of cards from a drawer. "Feel better?"

Her smile was less enjoyment of the whiskey than it was victory over the girly urge to cough. "Getting there."

"Good." He gestured to the dining room. "After you." There it was—that tone again.

"What?"

"Nothing. Sometimes I can't tell if you're being a gentleman or just a really cynical ass."

"You read too much into it, love. I just want to see that you don't clean anything on the way to the table."

* * *

The cards were a mistake.

It had started off fun. It was surprisingly easy to forget about everything else but the sound of his taunts and his laughter. After she'd handed his ass to him a few times, he'd cut back on the taunts. But now that her brain was a little fuzzy, it was hard to remember at what point they'd stopped laughing.

Now, he stared her down with the best poker face she'd ever seen—especially considering what was on the other side of his cards. She raised a final bet.

He tossed in his hand. "We're done."

"You mean you're done." She raked up the pot, a pile of bottle caps gathered from the kitchen counter, coffee table, and couch cushions. All but three sat on her side of the table.

"No, we're done. You're cheatin'."

"I'm _what_?"

"You heard me. You're counting cards. What is that, eleven hands in a row?"

"So poker's not your game," she said. "We could try Slap Jack."

"Eleven, Leah."

"What does Murphy usually beat you by?"

"Not eleven." The vein on his temple was standing out.

"My God, you're serious. You're the one who brought out the cards. I can't play without looking, and you know what happens when I look."

"Aye, I know what happens. You're the one who told me it's not automatic."

"Unless it's in _black and white_," she said, holding up a card. "Do you ever listen? I didn't ask for this, you know. It's not like an elective surgery. It's not steroids."

"No, it's a fucking gift," he said, scooping up his three remaining caps, "that you use for parlor tricks…card games…and traffic jams."

She felt herself redden as he dropped his caps, one by one, onto her pile.

"Do you want me to _let_ you win? Forgive me if I thought that would be more insulting." She pushed the pile back to him with enough force to send half of them off the table. "What am I supposed to do, Connor? Since you have it all figured out. What would you do?" She reached for her beer, accidentally tipping it into her lap.

"I'd calm the hell down, first of all. Christ." He stood up and stalked into the kitchen. "I'm going to find some dice."

A drawer opened, then slammed shut, and then another. She heard the window slide.

Pressing her hands over her eyes, she leaned on the table, feeling the spilled beer soaking into her pants. She had no desire whatsoever to clean it up.

The faint smell of smoke drifted in with a cold draft. She heard the beep of phone buttons. He was texting someone, or calling someone who wasn't picking up. He didn't leave a message.

God, what was she doing here? What had she been thinking? She could have talked to her supervisor. They would have let her stay at the station if she'd asked.

Footfalls crossing the kitchen floor, quieter than before. She steeled herself before looking up.

His smile struck her almost as hard as his words had. "No dice."

She threw a bottle cap at him.

He caught it, pinched it between his middle finger and his thumb, and snap-fired it back at her, hitting her smack on the collarbone.

"Wow," she said. He'd actually put some zing behind it. She rubbed away a tiny dot of blood. "Maybe we should play a different kind of game."

"No more games," he said, bending over her and kissing the spot before she could see it coming. "Sorry," he said, hovering at her ear. "I don't think my ego can take it."

Her mouth and her brain couldn't communicate until he moved away to gather up the cards. "I'm sorry for crushing you without mercy," she said. "Also for…earlier, at the station."

His eyes darkened. "You can make it up to me."

She'd had almost enough whiskey to ask how. She'd definitely had enough to wonder. She watched him slide and stack the cards. His hands were rough, even without the scrapes and cuts.

Normally, she'd offer to check out his injuries, and treat if necessary, but something was stopping her. She couldn't understand why. She couldn't even bring herself to ask him what had happened. He caught her staring, and glanced down at the scabs. She hopped up, killing the topic before it could dare spring to life.

Her pants weren't getting any drier. Her bag lay against the wall. She found her sweatpants in it, wrapped around the silver pistol that the Saint had packed in her bag. She touched the cold metal, still able to pinpoint the spot he had kissed on the back of her hand, feel the way it burned under his lips, just the way her collarbone still burned from Connor's.

She tucked the gun under some other clothes and went to change in the bathroom.

When she came back, Connor was slipping the cards back in their box. His gaze shifted to the sweats she was wearing. He made no comment as she laid the damp workpants to dry on the chair next to him.

She'd left her tools in their designated pockets. He reached over and lifted out the trauma shears. "These are seriously wanky scissors."

"They're not wanky. The bend makes them easier to cut with."

"Use them much?"

"If I have to cut someone out of their seatbelt. Or their clothes." She hadn't used them tonight. Ortie had used his instead.

Connor chopped the air with them a few times, looking unimpressed. "Boy scouts get to carry pocket knives."

"Pocket knives can't cut through a quarter."

"And the wankers can?"

"It'd ruin them, but they could do it."

He rubbed a hand over his lips, not quite covering the doubtful look on his face.

"I don't have a quarter," she said, "or I'd show you."

"Use a bottle cap."

"It's not the same. You already believe in the bottle cap."

He set the shears down and stacked up their empty glasses. "Let it go, love."

"Do you have one?" She stopped him, blocking his path to the kitchen.

"There's change in my pockets." He held the stacks of glasses out to his sides. "How bad do you want to show me?"

His eyes locked with hers. _Quit stalling like a girl_, they seemed to say.

Squaring her shoulders, she closed the distance and slipped her hands into his pockets. It was difficult to maneuver from her backwards angle and keep a dignified distance. She felt his body shake with silent laughter. Annoyed, she leaned closer, her cheek brushing against his chest. Through the texture of his thermal, he was surprisingly warm, and hard as a rock. Discretely, she breathed in the scent that had been vaguely distracting her all night, an unsafe combination of whiskey and cigarettes and man.

The stacked glasses clinked as he adjusted his hold on them, and she realized this was taking far longer than he probably thought necessary. She felt a wisp of his breath on her forehead, and felt heat flood her body, to the tips of her toes. She pushed her hands down farther, knowing she'd never have the nerve for a second attempt, not with how warm his legs felt against the backs of her hands through the cotton, not with how carefully she was navigating her exploration.

Fingers found their prizes, and she withdrew them quickly, backing away to see what she'd found. Four shiny pennies and a dime in one hand, keys and a plastic lighter in the other.

His feet didn't move while she stared down at her collection. At the edge of her vision, she saw what she'd done. His jeans were a little baggy, and she'd pulled them even lower, inches below the waistband of his dark blue boxers, which were already low enough on his hips to reveal a flat stretch of stomach.

She thumbed the pennies, waiting for him to adjust his pants, but he stood there, still holding the glasses, until finally she walked past him to the table, not looking at him, setting the contents of his pockets down next to the shears.

The glasses clinked into the sink.

"No quarters," she said. "Do you have change anywhere else?"

The water turned on for several seconds.

"Forget it," he said, coming back to the table, resting his hands on the back of the chair he'd been sitting in. "I believe you."

"No, I really want to show you."

"You don't have to prove anything, Leah. I believe you."

She chopped the dime first. He watched her do it, saying nothing. The pennies were next. When she'd cut three of the four, he disappeared down the hall, coming back to lay a single quarter on the table. By then, the shears were gouged in several places, the serrations irreparable, and one of the blades was bent. She picked up the quarter and held it between the blades. It bit the edge, but would go no further. Adjusting her grip, she tried bracing the shears on the table and leaning her weight onto it. The quarter flipped sideways, pushing itself between the blades and then popping out onto the floor.

Connor moved quickly, picking it up first, holding out a hand for the shears. She held her own hand out for the quarter. The stalemate lasted longer than it should have. Finally, she made the mistake of trying to stare him down. What she saw almost broke her. She looked down quickly, unable to stop seeing the blue clarity of his gaze, the faint redness, the barest shine of moisture.

"Let it go, love."

At long last, he opened his hand. She took the quarter and tried again. The handle pressed a purple trench in her thumb knuckle. When it became too painful, she switched to her left hand, and then tried with both.

Connor's hands closed around her wrists, squeezing, slowly increasing the pressure until her grip weakened. He pried away the shears. She heard them thud on the carpet on the other side of the room, and closed her eyes, terrified of the tears she could no longer stop.

When she finally became aware of how wet she'd made his shirt, and how tightly he was holding her, she pushed tentatively away. His arms were unyielding.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, finding a dry spot to wipe her face. "I'm so sorry."

A warm hand slid along her neck. His lips touched her forehead, and she couldn't breathe, couldn't move. He wiped a stray tear with his thumb, then kissed each cheek and then the bridge of her nose, lifting her chin until his mouth was hovering just above hers.

"I'm a mess," she whispered.

"Makes two of us."

His stubble was rough, and his mouth tasted like whiskey, but his kiss was more tender than she could ever have thought possible.

Her hands slid up his arms, over his shoulders. Along one side of his neck, her fingers skimmed over a rough patch—a tattoo? For an instant, he froze, his mouth open slightly against hers, and her dazed mind struggled to make a connection that seemed distractingly important. Then he took her hand from his neck and moved it to his chest, over his heart, jack-hammering beneath her palm.

She took his bottom lip between hers and suckled it, and the kiss went from tender to something far more volatile.

Need.

…

* * *

...


	45. Confession

_**A/N**__: Thanks to all you reviewers – every single one of you has made my day. Even you lurkers, so resistant to giving feedback…I know you're out there, and I appreciate the heck out of you, too. Goddess – you are my rock. I think all of you have earned this:_

**[Chapter 45: Confession]**

* * *

"Jesus."

They lay together on the twin mattress, the blankets tangled at their feet. Connor reached down to move a picture frame that had been knocked onto the floor.

"Where did you learn that?" he asked. "Please don't say girl scouts."

"I was never a scout." She smiled in the darkness, stretching her body alongside his. "We used to spend summers at this cabin on Brome Lake, near Montreal. There was this scout camp nearby. My dad never understood why I couldn't just stay at the cabin." She settled her cheek against his chest, laying straight the beads of his rosary, then smoothing her fingertips down the valley between his pecs. "He still can't understand. Last week he tried to give me the key."

"Did you take it?"

"No. He said I never know when to quit and I called him a hypocrite. When I got home, the key was on my keychain."

Connor lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the tip of each finger. "It's not the worst idea I've ever heard."

"I've packed my suitcase four times. Twice I've brought it down to the car."

"What's stopping you?" The million-dollar question.

"Are you saying…" Slowly, she let her hand slide lower, "that you'd prefer I was in Canada right now?"

He answered, but in a language she couldn't translate.

She slid her hand back up, resting it on his stomach.

He brought her hand back to his lips, finding the center of her palm, the tip of his tongue sending little shockwaves throughout her body. A sound escaped her throat, and the next thing she knew, she was pinned, and it was clear what he preferred.

She splayed her fingers on his back, loving the hardness of his waist, the muscles of his shoulders, the heat of his mouth.

Her fingers caught the rosary beads around his neck, and then traced them along his skin-and there was the rough patch again. She skimmed back over it. It was a deep scrape, far from healed.

"You all right?" he asked.

"I am. You're not."

"You're here. You're naked in my bed. I'm more than all right."

She tried to see it in the dark, and realized the injury was over his tattoo.

It would scar, but it would heal, unlike others, because Connor was lucky, and others were not.

He kissed along her jaw. "Just a scrape, love."

_An inch to the right_, _and that's all Duffy's would have been_.

Against her will, a tear escaped, sliding down towards her ear, towards his lips.

He paused, his hovering body heating the air between them. His lips touched her cheekbone, stopping the tear. She closed her eyes when he pulled back to look at her.

He shifted, sliding down next to her. His hand cupped her ass. "I've been wanting to do this since the first time I saw you."

She took a breath, trying to file away her creeping thoughts, feeling like a champagne bottle that had been shaken up.

"The first time I saw you, I wanted to strap an ice pack on your face. You looked like hell."

"Aye. Murph can crack cinderblocks when he's pissed. Especially when it's me he's pissed at."

"I'll bet you deserved it."

His hand began to move, the rough cuts on his wrists and hands scratching lightly against her skin. "I did."

She reached down, not really meaning to, running her fingers over his cuts, feeling the size and number and the extent of the injuries. "That night was the first time I met Tom Duffy," she said, regretting the words before she was even done saying them.

The shift was gradual, but she felt it, how he drew his arms slowly away from her, propping them under his head.

"You already knew his name," he said. "You'd seen it."

The Saint was the only one she'd told. A wave of over-exposure hit her, and she saw herself, saw Connor, saw the masked man in her bedroom, like a series of out-of-body visions.

He'd told Connor everything. She reached for the blanket.

"Carmen Mancini's dead," she said, leaving some space between them as she settled back onto the mattress. "Plus half the Boston mafia. It's probably safe for me to go home. Did your Saint tell you that?"

After a long moment, he shifted, making her body sink towards him. "It was your choice to come."

A different kind of heat flowed through her, making it uncomfortable now, so close to his body. She curled away to face the wall, but the bed dipped in the middle, keeping her back pressed against him.

Through the wall, the refrigerator began to hum.

She felt his fingers on her neck, gently brushing aside her hair. She didn't move. He leaned down and kissed her, working his way up, to whisper in her ear, "I'm glad you did."

Something heavy tugged inside her chest. It felt like gravity, but it was pulling the wrong direction.

"I'm sorry that I told him about Duffy," she said. "I should have kept my mouth shut. I should have told you instead. I wish to God that I would have."

"It wasn't you," he said. "You didn't type Duffy's name onto that list." He gave a hard sigh, laying flat beside her. "If he was on it—fuck. I don't know what the fuck it means. If the mob had a hold on him-"

She felt his chest freeze on the exhale.

The silence was crushing. She couldn't stand it; she rolled back to him. His arms closed around her, so tightly, and for the first time in a long time, she felt a prayer leave her heart, hoping it would find its way to whoever might be listening.

She held him, her head on his chest, feeling it rise and fall, listening to his blood pulse through the chambers of his heart.

It was so quiet, she began to hear muffled snoring carrying from the floor above them. Connor's arms relaxed around her. His breathing grew slow and even, his body warm and solid next to her. She wanted to pull the blanket back up over them, but couldn't do it. It felt like something delicate would shatter.

Slowly, his hand began to move, traveling down her side.

"Did your Saint say anything else, about me?" she asked.

He seemed to think for a very long time before answering. "He said you're quick on your feet."

"That's it?"

"Also your apartment is very clean, and you're great at lying to cops. Nothing about red panties or you wanting to sleep with me."

She flicked his chin. "I knew it. I knew he would tell you."

He kissed the top of her head. "If Chaffey and Mitchell get to hear about it, don't you think I should?"

"Sure. So you can make an honest woman out of me."

"You can thank me later."

"I thought I just did."

"So you did. Well, guess we're done here. I'll be on the couch."

He started to sit up, and she snaked a hand around his middle, pulling him back to the bed and pinning him with one knee, like before.

"You are quick on your feet," he said. "Learn that move at camp, did you?"

"That camp is where I learned _first aid_. I got a lot of practice. I didn't have any brothers, and as you may know, boys are pretty reckless at that age."

His hand started again at her waist, this time climbing slowly, smoothing over the side of her breast, spreading wildfire.

Her toes curled, catching his scraped knee and he flinched. "Some are reckless at any age," she said, kissing his chest in apology.

"I told you I'm a mess. Don't be shocked when you see the sheets in the morning."

Golden opportunity. She could ask him right now how it happened, and it would be perfectly natural.

"I told you," she said, "you could have saved your knees. I didn't mind the top."

"Really. You didn't mind." He arched an eyebrow.

"It was all right."

In one quick move, he'd pulled her on top of him. She couldn't help it; she arched her back, pressing against him, closing her eyes.

"Wait," he whispered, grasping her hips, holding her still. "I want you to try something."

One of his hands left her hip, freeing her. She took full advantage.

He swore in French, grabbing her firmly again, pressing his thumbs into the ticklish joints of her hips until she caved, giggling.

She leaned down, trailing kisses from the side of his mouth to his ear, suckling his earlobe. His hands stopped fighting her, and she slid up, just far enough…

He groaned and clamped an arm around her, locking her in place, quickly letting go of her again with his other hand. She felt him stretch, heard him fumble at the nightstand, and then the lamp switched on. They both winced at the light, but he was grinning.

"Now," he said, positioning her exactly where he wanted, "this time—no closing your magical eyes."

…

* * *

Afterwards, he pulled her close. "I can die now."

"Now that you're a porn star?"

"Now that _you're_ a porn star. These eyes were open, too, not that you would have noticed…"

Her body was still humming as he nuzzled her cheek, kissing her dimple.

"Just don't die in bed," she said, "and make paramedics deal with you."

"Did you ever have a patient who died like that? With…rigor mortis…"

She poked him, because he was so recently cured. "You don't want to know about the patients I've had."

He took her offending hand and laced it in his, _Veritas_ barely visible in the moonlight from the window.

She burrowed closer, tucking her shoulder under his arm, tracing the letters of his tattoo with her finger. "You know that ad that came on after the news, when I first got here?"

She felt his cheek rest against the top of her head. "With the little bald girl?"

"Her name's Socorro. She was a patient of mine, very briefly. My father actually did her surgery, and then we transferred her. She was the first kid treated in the new pediatric oncology ward."

"Is that the one they kept going on about, all that troubling with funding?"

"Yep." Leah sighed. "She's almost three years cancer-free. As far as I can figure, we have Frangioli's baked ziti to thank for it."

Leave it to a mob hit man to turn one of her favorite dishes into something she would never order again.

Connor rubbed along her spine, all the way down to her tailbone. "Darlin, I love hearing your stories, but I am way too tired to make that leap."

"Did you ever hear of a mob guy, Anthony Civella?"

"Big Tony, aye. They said he got meaner with every extra pound. Dropped off the map a few years ago."

"The baked ziti was his favorite, and they say he ate it every single night of the week. Do you ever go to Frangioli's?"

His fingers spread across the small of her back. "Not for a long time. We used to go with a friend of ours. It is good ziti."

"It's a lot of calories, and apparently he never cut down. Problem is, when a wanted criminal with clogged arteries needs open-heart surgery, there aren't a lot of options."

Connor's fingers stopped moving.

"Two hundred thousand," she said, marveling at how steady her voice sounded, "that's how much they offered my dad. He probably tried to refuse, but who knows?"

"Christ. That's why you went to see him." His arms flexed, crushing her against him. "After seven years..."

She pushed a hand on his chest, needing to breathe. His arms loosened and she rolled over, fitting her body into his. "There's a line," she said softly, "that we're not supposed to cross, and I can't even see where it is anymore. I think we've all crossed it."

_You, me, your brother, Annie…Duffy, my dad, the Saints…_

"When I saw my dad's name on that slimebag's computer, even before I knew what the list was, I just wanted to erase it. I knew he was in trouble, and I assumed whatever it was, he was guilty."

"And when he didn't try to deny it, I hated him for it. I wanted the whole story, so I followed the trail—and the account numbers aren't his. It's the general building fund for the children's hospital. Three days after he performed that double bypass, an anonymous donation was made, enough for them to finish the construction and open the doors in time to help Socorro."

Connor let out a long breath, his face buried in her hair. "That's why you held on to the list."

"I'm so sorry to dump it on you, but whatever they dig up about Duffy—I just wanted you to know that, right or wrong, there could be another side to his story."

Connor was quiet for a long moment. Then, very softly, he kissed the top of her head.

"He told me to find the Saints," she said, speaking so quietly that she wondered if he could hear her. "On the way to the hospital, Tom woke up, and he said to tell Smecker something, but he never said what. He asked if I'd seen his name on the list. I told him yes." She closed her eyes. "He said, _find the Saints_, and it was like he was telling _me_, _I_ needed to find them. I tried to ask why. The way he looked at me, Connor…that was the last thing he said."

Connor's hand slid slowly over her waist. "Have you told anyone?"

"No one. I can't. I don't know what it means. Find them, because they shot me? Or find them, because they'll avenge me?"

"Or, find them, because this list is serious trouble and they can help you."

"Help me?" She flipped onto her back, laying her hand over his, low on her stomach. "Connor, I told him how to find Mancini's place in Bay Village. He talked about the list, he said the people on it were corrupt, that they were partnered with the mob. I told him Duffy was on it." She lifted their hands, gesturing with both of them. "And now here we are."

His eyes narrowed. "Wait. What?" His hand pulled away. "_That's_ what you meant by you're sorry you told him about Duffy? No. You don't believe that."

"I don't want to."

"Then fucking don't." He sat up, on the edge of the bed. "They destroy what's evil, so they can _protect_ the good."

"And when he looked at Duffy, what did he see?" Her voice wavered, coming out in a whisper. "If you didn't pull the trigger, Connor, how can you really know?"

He was resting his elbows on his knees, head hanging, eyes closed.

She sat up behind him, on her knees, and slid her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his back. His heart was racing. "This is what I lie awake thinking about," she said.

"When I saw my dad's name, I scrolled through a few pages, but it was only a moment, Scuderi was coding. I saw sixty-four names. The toolbar at the bottom said three of _thirteen pages_. I only saw maybe a quarter of them. In standard Times New Roman, 12-point font, on letter paper with one-inch margins, that's approximately twenty-four names per page, 312 total, if the last page was full. If it was only partial, then-"

"Stop it."

"I looked up every name I saw. One is a convicted rapist. Two of them are contractors, blacklisted by the Better Business Bureau, with major lawsuits pending. Union reps, a port authority commissioner, a judge, three cops-"

"_Leah_." He squeezed her fingers in his fists.

"At best, men like my dad and Duffy are exceptions. There's no way to know what they've all done—and, the real problem isn't what I saw, but what I _didn't_ see. Do you get that? Whose name was on page four? Or page five? We know there's a mole-there's no way to know who to trust."

He turned, taking her by the shoulders. "Trust _me_. I'm going to help you."

"Connor-" He pressed a tattooed finger over her lips, and she went silent.

"Do you believe in me?" He pulled her around, into his lap, so that her legs wrapped around him and they were face to face. "Do you?" He kissed her lightly, on each side of her mouth.

Did she?

He bowed his head, lips brushing lightly over the crest of each breast. "Do you?"

He looked up, and she kissed the scar in his eyebrow, then rested her forehead on his, trying not to think about tomorrow. "I do, Connor, but-"

"Enough," he said. "Leah, if you say you'll believe in a man, then fucking believe in him. You can't solve every problem by laying it out and counting it up." He knocked her head gently with his. "Sometimes faith is the only right answer."

She took his face in her hands and memorized every plane, every angle, every wrinkle and line and scar. His eyes were on her lips.

"Okay, Connor," she whispered. He lifted his gaze, unflinching, his eyes dilated black. "I'm putting my faith in you."

There was a flash in his eyes, almost like pain, and then his mouth found hers.

...


	46. Morning After

**[Chapter 46: Morning After]**

* * *

Leah awoke with a start, heart hammering. Someone was in the house.

Not her house.

A warm body stirred beside her. _Connor._

His strong hand snaked slowly around her waist, pulling her further under the covers. If a man could purr, he was doing it, and it sent goosebumps all the way down her legs.

Sounds coming from the living room set reality knocking on her lagging brain. The man and the bed couldn't stop it all from coming back—who, and where, and why.

The bedroom door hung halfway open – they'd never gotten up to close it. She caught a glimpse of Murphy in the hall as he passed, his hand sliding along the wall, dark head down, sunglasses on. She never heard the bathroom door close—just the tink of the toilet seat and the sound of peeing.

Connor sat up with a groan. Squinting in the morning light, he searched the floor around him.

She pulled his discarded boxers from under the pillow and tossed them in his lap, then curled into the warm spot he'd left. "Just shut the door," she whispered.

Seeming not to hear her, he pulled on the boxers, then sat rubbing his temples, closing his eyes like he might go back to sleep.

It was like a sonic boom, the double-bang of Murphy's hand against the door, and then the door hitting the wall. "Con, you up?" His mouth dropped open at the sight of Leah in the bed. She shrank under the covers, giving him a tight smile. "Fuck," he said, looking up at the ceiling. "Sorry. Con?"

"Top of the morning, Murph," Connor said, groaning as he got up. "You all right?"

Murphy shrugged, his expression dark.

"You didn't answer your phone," Connor said.

Murphy's eyes fell on Leah again, and then drew a circle around the room, pausing on a pile of dark clothing on top of a duffel bag, and then cut pointedly back to Connor. "Need my bag," he said.

Connor looked at him for a beat, and then without a word, went and moved the bundle of clothes into the closet, pulled a shirt off a hanger, and then slid the closet door shut.

Murphy picked up the bag and left, leaving the door open behind him.

In the kitchen, something heavy clunked onto the floor.

Connor sighed.

"I should go," Leah said.

Connor rubbed a hand over his face and sat back down on the bed beside her. "Don't worry about him," he said. "Murph's not used to seeing beautiful women in the morning."

"Really. What is he used to seeing?"

"Just me." He slid a hand down her leg, over the blanket. "You're the first."

Gravity tugged in her chest again.

"_Connor!_" Murphy's shout made her jump.

Connor swore, answering him in what sounded like Italian, and not very nice.

"It's all right," she told him. "God forgave Cain."

A smile creased his tired eyes. "No, He didn't," he said, tucking the blanket around her. Then he kissed her, scratching her gently with his sandpaper stubble.

He pulled on jeans and the shirt from the closet, and left, shutting the door behind him. She laid there, lips tingling, privately savoring the evidence that last night had really happened.

Tense voices carried through the kitchen wall. She couldn't tune them out. This morning was really happening, too.

Sitting up reminded her of what else had happened last night. Pain throbbed behind her eyes, and then spread to the rest of her skull, and down her throat to twist in her stomach.

Seventeen minutes. That's how long it should take her to shower, dress, brush teeth, and find keys. No polite asking if anyone else needs the bathroom. No forced small talk with the brother whose hangover might be worse than hers. Coffee could wait. So could the analysis of whatever it was that was now between her and Connor.

The words that carried through the wall were clipped, mostly in languages she couldn't identify. She caught a few choice selections, enough to get her moving towards the blissful white noise of the shower.

She found her underwear in the sheets, her sweatpants on the floor. Her hair tie was nowhere in sight, having been launched across the room by a certain man threatening unmentionable torture if she didn't consent to letting her hair down.

Her bag with toiletries and clean clothes was still in the dining room. So were yesterday's shirt and bra, she realized, cringing. Even after everything, borrowing Connor's clothes without permission felt like crossing a line. His thermal from yesterday was right there next to the nightstand. Maybe just for a minute, just for the dash to the bathroom.

She pulled it on, breathing in his scent. God, it would almost be worth skipping the shower and the teeth brushing, just to wear it for another seventeen minutes.

She tiptoed past the tension in the kitchen, into the dining room to retrieve her things. Plucking her bra off the floor, she spotted some wayward bottle caps under the table. Then she spotted something else.

It was a tube of lipstick-a brand she didn't recognize, and a color she would never wear.

In the kitchen, Murphy's brogue was thicker than she remembered it, carrying a sharp edge that seemed to Leah as a bit overdramatic for the situation. Sure, the brothers were close, and she would hate to imagine this happened _all_ the time, but quite frankly, they were both far too good-looking to have never experienced this awkward morning-after thing at least a few times before.

Then she caught Duffy's name, and her blood chilled.

She took the lipstick with her, moving towards the bathroom, when Connor's answer, almost too low to hear, made her slow to a stop.

"_She doesn't know anything. I was careful."_

It felt like the air got sucked from her lungs. Very slowly, she shifted her weight to see into the kitchen, bringing the two men into view while keeping herself as hidden as possible by the hallway wall.

Still wearing sunglasses, Murphy shook his head, muttering, cursing from what she could tell, and then he seemed to jump from one language to another, all in one continuous, quietly livid rant. She caught the word _reckless_ and fought the urge to tell him it was none of his damn business.

Connor might have said so, but there was no way to be sure. All she caught was a name: _Annie._

Murphy moved so fast that at first she wasn't sure what she'd seen.

Connor's shoulders hunched, and his head dropped. He laid a hand on the counter.

Murphy watched him, cradling his left arm with his right hand, which was balled into a fist.

Leah's heart slammed against her ribcage.

After several long seconds, Connor straightened, not making a sound as he picked a roll of gauze from what looked like a bag of medical supplies.

Still watching Connor, Murphy pulled up the sleeve of his sweater, exposing a bandage around his elbow. He began to unwind it, and Leah could see that the inner layers were dark with old blood. The last of it was harder to remove; Murphy leaned against the counter while Connor worked it free with some water and a damp cloth.

Connor's back was blocking her view, but she didn't dare move. Connor put the used bandages aside and lifted his brother's arm for a closer look. Murphy sucked in a breath and moved closer, and that was when she saw the hole.

Swallowing a wave of nausea, she flew silently past the bathroom, to the safety of the bedroom. _It could be from anything,_ she told herself. Barbeque skewer, bow and arrow, ice pick…_Sure, Leah. Ice pick._

Murphy's voice lowered, making it hard to distinguish the foreign words. She pressed her ear to the wall, dusting off the old files in her mind, searching for relevance.

"…_il est compliqué__…__un problème__...__son père__…__à l'hôpital…deux cents mille dollars…"_

Recoiling, she covered her ears with her hands, spinning from the wall. The bed assaulted her with memories.

She fought them off, yanking the sheets up sharply. Tucked in the corners, smoothed the blanket. Straightened the picture frame on the wall, re-hung his rosary beads on the nail, stacked up the pile of spare change, lined up his keys, cigarettes, and Bic lighter—she'd never returned his silver one.

She gathered up what clothes were strewn about and went to throw them in the closet. A black knit hat flopped out onto her foot, making her jump. She looked down at it, and it seemed to look back at her, its three machine-stitched holes locked in a silent, horrified scream.

The clothes fell from her arms. Dropping to her knees, she reached with trembling fingers for the hat—which, of course, was not really a hat at all.

_No, no, please no…_

Footfalls outside the door. She kicked the mask into the pile, standing up quickly as the bedroom door opened.

Connor stepped in, his brows lifting at the sight of her. He glanced behind him.

"I'm sorry," she said as he closed the door. "I didn't mean to…"

"It's okay, I don't mind." He crossed the room, his eyes darkening as he backed her against the wall, then pulled back a bit to look at her. "It looks good on you."

His hands slid under the thermal, circling her waist. "Connor-"

His lips touched hers, making her lose what she was going to say next. With only the thin layer of fabric between them, her body began to react in spite of itself. It took everything she had to keep her hands down at her sides.

Her body betrayed her with longing when he pulled away. "What is it, love?"

She closed her eyes at the endearment.

He placed his hands on her shoulders, concern suddenly radiating from every pore.

_Tell him what you saw. Tell him you know. Make him tell you why._

His hands slid down her arms to her hands, discovering the lipstick that was still locked in her fist.

He lifted it from her palm.

"It was under the table," she said, despising her cowardice. "It's not mine."

His gaze darted past her to the slightly open closet door, and then back to the lipstick. She watched him turn it over, tilting his head curiously-unknowingly showing off the gash on his neck.

_Just a scratch, love._ Just a scratch exactly like the one on the Saint, the one she'd seen with her penlight that night in her bedroom.

"Christ Almighty," he said, not quite stopping a smile. "I do believe there's a bit of green in those brown eyes."

That voice. How could she have never put it together? In her mind, the separate files began to converge, interlocking like the teeth of a zipper.

"This is really what's bothering you?" he asked.

She found herself nodding, and then felt his warm hand cup her jaw.

_I was just wondering how a person like you copes with it all, _she'd asked the man in the mask.

_I punch something,_ he'd said. _That, or get laid… _

She turned her face when he kissed her.

He backed up a full step. She forced herself to look at him, and saw the sudden change in his eyes.

"Leah…I meant you're the first in this _bed_."

"But not in this apartment." She blushed, knowing how ridiculous she sounded.

He ran a hand through his hair. "Darlin', I don't know what to tell you. Murph had Annie up here a few days ago. Must be hers."

"Oh," she said, lost for any better response as Murphy's wound came to mind. _Sure, it could be from anything_.

_But generally, gunshot wounds are caused by guns._

"Are you sure there's nothing else on your mind?" he asked, shifting his weight slightly closer, gauging her reaction. He was like a study in misdirection-a walking, talking magic trick.

She crossed her arms, hugging herself, unable to back up further because of the wall. "Murphy's pretty pissed," she said. "I think I'd better just shower and be on my way."

Hesitation. "Don't worry about him. He's just hung over."

"Yeah, seems to be going around."

He smiled, pulling her into his arms, and it was the worst kind of torture. She wanted nothing more in that moment than to go back in time six hours and stay there forever.

_You're not that selfish. You want to be, but you're not._

He could have stopped this. He could have just let her stay the night, without reeling her in, making her _feel_ this way. It was so supremely unfair that her eyes began to sting, threatening another tearful fiasco like last night's quarter-chopping incident.

_Suck it up—break down now and you'll only make it worse. Deal with the bigger picture._

She blinked quickly, silently, summoning to mind that self-directed movie her eyes had made last night, reminding herself that at every moment, Connor had known this was coming. He had known how much this would hurt.

_And what did you think, exactly? That the sun wouldn't rise? That his brother wouldn't come home? That in the morning, Duffy wouldn't still be dead?_

"Connor, about last night…" she began, realizing immediately what it sounded like—and then choosing to let the loaded words hang there.

She felt his back stiffen.

"I don't usually drink that much," she said.

His body straightened, subtly separating from hers.

"What I told you about my dad—that needs to stay between us."

Relaxing, he kissed the top of her head. "Of course."

"Of course," she couldn't help repeating. "So—not even Murphy, okay?"

"Okay, sure."

"You haven't told him already?"

"No, I haven't told him." The lie slipped out so easily, and then seemed to float in the air, drifting like a snowflake.

She felt it as it broke, whatever was left of that delicate thing she'd been so afraid of destroying—it shattered like glass into a thousand tiny pieces.

Closing her eyes against the sting, she stretched to kiss him lightly, and for the last time. Then, she slipped from his arms and stepped away to find her bag.

"There are some things Murphy does need to know, Leah. I can't keep everything a secret."

"No, I imagine you can't." She turned her back to remove his shirt, feeling his eyes on her as she put on her bra and top. It was palpably different now, this exposure, and she wondered if he could feel it, too.

"We need to sit down and talk this through," he said. "Together, all of us. You promised to let me help, remember?"

"I remember promising you my faith." She smiled, to keep him from seeing anything else. "Let's talk after I shower. It kinda stinks in here, and I don't think it's all you."

"It isn't. I didn't want to say anything, but…"

She forced a laugh, taking a quick glance around to make absolutely sure she'd left nothing behind. He showed her how to jimmy the shower faucet for hot water, but she could only focus on his tattooed finger, thinking how the irony of the word couldn't possibly be lost on him.

He gave her a towel and she gave him a smile, spotting Murphy in the hallway as she closed the bathroom door.

Then, very quietly, she pressed her ear to it, this time knowing exactly what she was listening for.

* * *

The shower started.

"She won't be long," Connor said.

Murphy checked the time on the microwave, and then carried the gun bag past his brother to his room and dropped it on the bed. He took a complete inventory, laying out both Berettas, noting the traces of blood still on his, and the concrete grit dusting Connor's.

Connor came in. "Sorry," he said, shutting the door. "I didn't get a chance to clean anything."

Murphy checked the ammo in the new purse pistol—not an easy task one-handed, but he wasn't about to ask for help. At least they had plenty of .22 rounds. "We're hitting 10 a.m. Mass," he said. "Duffy's wife wants Smecker to check on the shrine somebody started for him. Greenly will be there, too."

"And Dolly?"

"Hasn't come in to work yet."

"Did you try calling?"

Murphy looked at him. "Would you?"

Connor frowned thoughtfully. He pushed aside the Berettas and sat down on the bed.

"Smecker tried him," Murphy said. "He's not answering."

"Smecker's asking a lot, expecting him to pull it together so soon."

"I'm the one who called the meet," Murphy told him, earning a look of surprise. "Those mafiosos were tipped off," he said. "We know it wasn't by Mancini. That threat's still out there, and we need to end this thing-not hide out between the sheets, not sit around crying. We need to fucking end it."

Connor didn't defend himself. He didn't make excuses and he didn't try again to explain. He took a box of .22 rounds and stood up.

Murphy returned the guns to the bag. "You talk to Seamus?" he asked. "My signal dropped on the bus."

Connor shook his head. "I'll give him a call after she leaves."

"You're just going to let her go?"

Connor crossed his arms. He waited. He was going to make Murphy spell it out.

"Con, she's like a surveillance camera that never turns off. Like a one-woman CSI unit. And you brought her _here_. After telling me _Annie_ knows too much!"

"Murph-"

"What's done is done. I'm not going there." He could still feel the impact of his fist on his brother's stomach, and knew Connor could, too. "But you let her walk out of here now, and we might as well drive down to the station and turn ourselves in."

"She doesn't know it's us. She can't. She thinks the Saints murdered Duffy."

"Jesus." Murphy zipped the bag closed slowly. "Because his name was on the list. And you didn't set her straight?"

"How the fuck could I?"

"Con, that woman's smarter than you. Maybe even smarter than me. If she hasn't figured out we're the Saints by now, it's because she doesn't want to."

"Of course she doesn't want to." He opened the door.

Murphy stowed the bag under his bed, and followed his brother to his room. "You can't tell me you're expecting a happy ending here."

"What happened to you last night?" Connor asked. "What happened to your dream of gas lamps?"

There hadn't been any dreams on that Dunkie's bench. Not for him.

Connor pulled on his boots, looking tired. Murphy let it drop. He was beginning to hate complications that couldn't be resolved with bullets.

He went to the kitchen, popped a can of breakfast, and noted on his return that the shower was still going. He gave Connor a look and pretended to check the time on his naked wrist.

"I'm sure she's almost done," Connor said, reaching for his rosary. His hand stopped in mid-air, hovering as his eyes fixed on something wrapped in plastic that lay on his pillow. It had an orange label.

"What is that?" Murphy asked.

Connor snatched it up and darted out of the room. He knocked on the bathroom door. There was no answer. The shower kept running.

"She's got to be out of hot water by now," Murphy said.

Connor knocked harder. "Leah." He tried the doorknob—locked. "Leah!"

Murphy knocked. "Leah, it's Murphy. Would you answer us, darlin'? You're getting Connor all worried."

Nothing.

Connor hammered the door, the plastic-wrapped object in his fist.

"Is that a needle?"

Connor's face was pale. Unspeakable visions danced in Murphy's head. He stretched to find the little metal tool on top of the door frame—and Connor's boot smashed into the wood beside him, sending the door swinging open with a sickening crack.

The mirror was fogged, but no steam rose over the curtain. The water had long since run cold. Connor strode in and whipped back the curtain. There was no one inside.

Murphy turned and moved quickly through the apartment, from the living room to the bedrooms, and then looked out each window that had a view of the street below. He came back to the bathroom.

Connor sat on the edge of the tub, head down, fingers buried in his hair.

Murphy picked up his beer, turned off the water, and sat down beside him.

"No sign of her," he said. "Except a tube of lipstick. I looked for a note, but…"

"There's the note," Connor said, head still in his hands.

The packaged needle lay at his feet. Murphy picked it up. "What's it mean?"

Connor sighed. "She knows."

...

* * *

...

_**A/N:** Thanks for the feedback, my wonderful readers! Keep it coming, because it keeps me going. I always try to answer your reviews, but keep in mind I can't send a response unless you're logged in. (There's no reply option for anonymous reviews-so if you don't log in, just assume my heartfelt gratitude for your kindness. Unless your review is simply awful. In which case, assume my heartbreak and bitterness. Just kidding... Your constructive criticism is absolutely appreciated, as well.) Love you guys!_


	47. Stained

_A/N: Sorry for the wait guys, this one was hard to write. Hope it will tide you over. Thanks for sticking with me!_

* * *

**[Chapter 47: Stained]**

Leah knew.

How, it didn't matter, Murphy had declared with what he considered extreme understanding. The important question, was what would she do about it?

Connor had tried to call her, of course. Not surprisingly, she hadn't answered. Connor left no messages.

They could go after her, but then what? There was nothing more Connor could say, except that he was sorry. That wouldn't stop her from confessing, if that's what she'd made up her mind to do. Murphy couldn't shake the feeling that their days in Boston were numbered. He almost took the duffel bag with them, but decided against it, since it would be unwatched in the car while they were inside the church.

Instead, he'd taken the keys.

Connor didn't argue, but he didn't stay quiet for long. The passenger seat probably felt like torture. Murphy sure hoped so.

"See if you can cut over to L," Connor said when they'd sat through two cycles of a red light.

"This way's shorter."

"Not today it's not."

"Do you want to drive?"

"Yes."

"Well, too fucking bad."

Seamus called Murphy's phone. Connor put it on speaker.

"_Slainte_," Seamus said. "_How was that for a fucking distraction_?"

"Your ma would be proud." Connor said.

Seamus laughed. "_Yeah fucking right. You did a fine job yourselves. It's a shame about that cop, though_."

Murphy took a breath and blew it out hard. "Aye. Damn fucking shame."

"_I don't mean it like that_," Seamus said. "_Look, I just wanted to see how you guys were doing, and let you know not to worry if you don't hear from us for a bit."_

"You taking off?"

"_Just taking a break. Rhonnie caught some static down at the docks this morning, it's got her spooked_."

"She okay?" Murphy asked.

"_She's fine. At least, she says she is. But she's doing a lot more packing than talking_."

"This is what happens, Seamus," Connor said. "They get scared, they look for any target they can think of. They get desperate and sloppy because they don't know what else to do. Believe it or not, this is what we want."

"_Connor, we're the clearest target out there. You don't think any of them are going to remember where Big Ugly and his buddies got sent on their last job_?"

"It's possible we killed everyone who knew."

"_They all know. They got a sketch artist drawing all over the news. Doesn't look a thing like me, but all the same, we're going to clear out the pub for a bit." _

"Be careful," Murphy said. "You and Rhonnie stick together. And call us if you need anything."

"_Murph, wait. There's something else. It's actually why I called. You want to, eh, take me off speaker?"_

Connor looked at him. Murphy shrugged a yes, and saw every muscle in his brother's body stiffen. Connor held out the phone, turning his focus to the road ahead.

Murphy had to brace the wheel with his knee, push the button, and then wedge the phone on his shoulder so he could still steer with his good hand.

"Go ahead."

"_Listen, Murphy, I saw something last night. I don't know what to make of it, but I couldn't hardly sleep not telling you_."

"What is it?"

Connor stopped watching the road and watched Murphy's face instead.

"_So I was coming up to the gate, right? I'd made a couple of passes, to check the scene. This time there was someone in the road-a man and a woman, smack in the middle of the damn lane. I had to swerve– they got clear before I hit them. Just for a second, as I passed, I saw the woman's face. Murph-it was Annie_."

Murphy watched the car in front of him grow closer and closer.

Connor smacked his arm and Murphy hit the brakes to keep from resculpting the bumper.

"Are you sure?" he asked Seamus over Connor's swearing. "You had to be going what, sixty?"

"_At least. And yeah, it was fucking dark out there, but I know what I saw. It was your girl out there, not fifty yards from Mancini's fucking front gate."_

Murphy let off the brake slowly, rolling along with the traffic, which had slowed almost to a stand-still.

"Okay," he said. "All right. Thanks for telling me."

"_I couldn't be sure about the fella she was with – looked like some kind of tussle, maybe. But you know the place was crawling with cops."_

A picture of Annie climbing out of that BMW in her black boots filled Murphy's vision.

"_What do you think she was doing there, Murph_?"

"I don't know, Seamus. I'm…planning to find out. Call me if you think of anything else."

He let the phone fall from his ear. It clattered onto the console and into the cup holder where he'd stuck Annie's cell phone. The two phones rattled against each other with the vibrations of the LTD on the rough asphalt.

Connor watched him, waiting to be filled in. Murphy stared at the traffic ahead. He thought he could see smoke on the vehicle-jammed horizon, but it was hard to tell against the gray sky. He should have taken Connor's advice and gone on L street. He should have taken Connor's advice on a lot of things.

Bracing the wheel with his knee again, he reached in his pocket for his lighter and felt the tube of lipstick he'd found after Leah had left. Connor had said it was Annie's. Murphy had expressed his doubts, but now he wasn't sure of anything.

He dropped the lipstick in the cup holder next to the phones, thinking of nothing but Annie until they reached the church.

* * *

From across the sanctuary, the sight of the suits sent a shock of panic through him, instantly and absurdly. His feet felt heavy again, like they had last night, but they carried him as if on a moving sidewalk toward the inevitable.

A superficial peace filled the old cathedral, lining the pews, circling the pulpit. It passed over and around, but not through him, the way the heat of a trash bin fire warms the skin but never really chases away the cold. He tried to shake the feeling that he shouldn't be here, like he'd become an intruder in his own home.

Flickering candles lined every available altar in the side chapel. They were running out of room for memorials.

Dolly stood in the center of the room, staring from afar at the shrine he'd been asked to go see. The usual stream of sympathetic old ladies trickled by on their way to take their seats for Mass, some trying to offer condolences, pats on the arm. Sister Margaret placed something in the detective's hand—tissues, maybe. Dolly didn't seem to notice she was there. He looked like he'd slept in his suit—except he looked like he hadn't slept.

Murphy walked to the shrine first, shamelessly stalling. It was small and tasteful – a line of candles, a photo of Duffy in uniform, and another with his family, various notes from mourners, a Bible opened to Jeremiah, chapter 31. What did Duffy's wife want them to "check on"? Murphy wondered. People were strange when it came to cops, but if there was ever something insulting placed up there, the sisters could be more than trusted to take care of it. His eye fell on the highlighted text, and he read the verse he already knew: _I will turn their mourning into joy; I will comfort them, and give them gladness for sorrow._

He turned, and found the detective's eyes on him–wary and bloodshot, and creating such a wave of guilt that he almost stumbled on the thin carpet. Who was he kidding? They couldn't do this here. Without stopping, he gestured for the detective to follow him, heading down the short aisle between the pews, toward the robe room at the back. For once, being late had paid off; Mass was already starting, so the door was unlocked, and the priests and servers had all cleared out to take their places at the altar. Thanking God for small mercies, he pushed inside, Connor behind him.

Dolly didn't come in immediately. Murphy walked the room. Nothing much had changed, only minor shifts in the furniture and the robe rack from daily use of the space. A bench against the wall had a row of cubbies underneath, one cube held a pair of shoes, another a striped beanie, and another a familiar, overstuffed Celtics backpack.

He tried not to watch the door. He said a prayer, asking for words—the right words, any words at all.

_Your partner got himself killed last night, saving my life. Sorry for your loss._

When Dolly finally joined them, the words still hadn't come.

Connor spoke first. "Greenly coming?"

Dolly looked at the closed door, as if he'd forgotten about the other cop. "Getting coffee."

"Smecker?"

Dolly shrugged.

And they all knew who wouldn't be making it.

"I'm so sorry, man," Murphy said.

Dolly nodded again, and Murphy nodded, and it felt fucking ridiculous, and over the top, and at the same time insulting, like the worst kind of disrespect.

Connor went to the door and looked out, giving someone outside an upward nod.

The next thing Murphy knew, Smecker had come in, and there were handshakes and embraces that threatened to do them all in. The silence that followed was even worse.

Smecker's suit jacket was missing, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up. A gray-blue tie hung loose and off-center from his open collar.

Someone kicked on the door.

"Greenly," Smecker grumbled, opening the door for the detective, who looked about a decade younger in a hoodie and jeans, balancing four styrofoam cups of lobby coffee in his hands.

Smecker looked at the cups and frowned, taking two and handing one to Dolly.

Greenly stared down at the extra cup, long enough for them all to realize what he'd done. "Fuck."

Dolly chuckled, the lapels of his trench coat bouncing on his chest like tent flaps. Then suddenly, he was blinking, and then he'd moved away from the group, making like he'd never seen a stained glass window before.

Afraid Greenly might drop it, Murphy took the extra cup for himself. "I don't know how to start," he admitted before the silence could settle again.

"Then I'll start," Smecker said. "This was my fault-"

"Shut the fuck up," Dolly said from across the room.

Smecker continued, his voice painstakingly controlled. "Following Mancini's men was a risky decision, one that I didn't stop to think through. If I would have waited for back-up-"

"You'd be dead," Murphy said.

"If you'd waited two minutes," Connor said, "if you'd waited ten seconds, it would have been over before you got there. There's no question. Mancini and his soldiers would've cut us down, with more than enough firepower left to take out you, and Duffy, and whatever back-up you waited for."

No one said anything.

Connor glanced at Murphy. "I'm not saying it's right, I'm just saying that's how it is."

"Okay," Greenly said, slouching into his hoodie. "So, that's how it is. Where do we go from here?"

"We go backwards," Smecker said. "We go step by step, because I don't know any other way." He took a long drink of coffee that had to have burned his tongue. "The soldiers left Chestnut Hill," he began quietly. "Duffy and I followed. Why did the soldiers leave?"

"Mancini called them in," Murphy said. "He got a call from the Associate right before we showed up."

"I don't suppose there's any chance-"

"No," Connor said dryly. "We didn't get his name. Smecker, you know when we fuck up we like to do it all the way."

A line beside Smecker's mouth came close to creasing.

Murphy told him what little they'd learned from the girlfriend before the bullets started flying.

"Regina said Mancini used to ask the Associate about his father," Connor added. "Does that mean anything to you?"

"No. Maybe." Smecker pinched the bridge of his nose. Thinking looked like it hurt his brain as badly as it did Murphy's this morning. "I assume Mancini wasn't pleased to hear his girlfriend telling you all this."

Murphy saw a flash of blood soaking leopard print. "Killing her was the last mistake he made."

Greenly sank onto the cubbie bench and leaned against the wall. "I knew it wasn't you guys that killed her."

"The fuck?" Connor said. "Of course it wasn't."

"I know," Greenly said quickly. Backpedaling. "I know women and children are usually off-limits, but-"

"Protected, Greenly. Always, not _usually_."

"I figured. I mean, I know. Forget what anyone else says."

"What who else says?" Connor asked.

From the far side of the room, Dolly chuckled again. The sound was unnerving.

"Every media outlet on the Eastern seaboard," Smecker said.

"More like the nation," Greenly said. His cell phone chimed, and he pulled it out to check it.

"If you haven't seen the news today," Smecker said, sitting down backwards on a wooden chair, "I'd advise you to tune in. The body count alone would be enough. But Carmen Mancini himself? Add in the special delivery to his home…do we want to talk about that?"

Murphy cringed internally. "I know how it looked. Those were Mancini's thugs. We had to take them out to save a friend."

Smecker considered that explanation long enough to channel his disapproval. "Fair enough," he said finally. "Clearly, returning them to Mancini in that…state…served as a powerful distraction, for Mancini's men, and for Beckman—who handled it all right, considering."

"He secured evidence," Greenly said, still finger-scrolling. "Big wow. He made a fucking show out of controlling a non-existent threat. They were already dead for Christ's sake!"

Dolly drifted slowly along the outskirts of the room, maybe listening, maybe checked out entirely.

"Beckman's stakeout was crumbling," Smecker said. "When that car showed up, he took full advantage of a bad situation, and managed to come out looking like a hero. He also managed to demonize the Saints' cause with a single press release—you're getting all the credit for last night—and all the blame."

Smecker's full meaning sank deep. As far as Beckman and the outside world were concerned, the Saints sent Godfather-like warnings of mutilated bodies to terrorize their enemies, while their holy executions included an innocent woman and a beloved cop.

"It's a slanted view," Smecker said without any of his usual bite, "but honestly, what did you expect?"

"Goddamn it," Greenly said, lifting his eyes to the agent. "Got a text from Chaffey. Fucking Beckman's temporary Head of Homicide, do you believe this shit?"

Smecker's eyes closed. "I was afraid this might happen."

Greenly slammed the phone down on the bench.

Smecker's eyes stayed closed. If Murphy didn't know better, he'd think the agent was praying. Dolly entered their circle quietly, taking a seat on the edge of a small table, moving aside a brass incense thurible Murphy had used yesterday for an ash tray. Duffy had been standing right there beside him, not twenty-four hours ago.

"Listen," Connor said, "Duffy came to us yesterday because you guys found out Beckman has a source. Chestnut Hill _was _our original plan, and somehow Beckman knew it. Then, last night, just before we showed up, Mancini got a call warning him we were coming to Bay Village."

"Someone's got a fucking finger in it," Greenly said. "They're a step behind, but they're still seeing the big picture before we are."

"Only an insider could know movements on both sides," Murphy said. The truth was ugly, but it had to be said. "It's the goddamn definition of a mole."

For a moment, the separation was painfully clear; a narrow aisle of carpet ran between them-the law on one side of the room, the killers on the other.

"You know it wasn't one of us," Greenly muttered, "because _we_ were all told your party was cancelled."

Connor rubbed the back of his neck tiredly. "We're sorry it had to be that way," he said. "We really are. It was for everyone's protection."

Smecker raised an eyebrow. Dolly scratched his unshaven chin. Greenly sipped his coffee. All awaiting an explanation that was going to hurt far more than it would help.

Murphy took a breath and let it fly. "We didn't know if we could trust Duffy."

Dolly's hand dropped from his chin.

"Murph." Connor's voice was a warning.

"Sugar-coating it doesn't bring him back," Murphy said. He took a breath, deciding Smecker was the safest one to focus on. "Leah saw his name on Scuderi's list. It's why she never confessed to you guys. She didn't think she could trust him."

"_Murph._"

"Jesus," Greenly breathed.

Smecker's eyes burned into him. Murphy hated to have to explain. "We couldn't keep you guys in, without alerting him that we knew…"

"But _Duffy_?" Greenly sat back, banging his head on the wall. "What the fuck? And why'd Leah tell you?"

"I admit I'm wondering that myself," Smecker said. "I spoke with her at the hospital, and she didn't give the slightest indication. Felt like interviewing a drone."

Dolly's face had gone so red that Murphy found himself scanning for a sidearm.

"It was Duffy who brought it up," Connor said, "Last night. When he woke up in the ambulance."

"She never-" Smecker glanced at Dolly. "Neither of you mentioned that Tom regained consciousness."

And Connor hadn't mentioned any of this to Murphy.

Dolly shook his head to say he hadn't known, then pressed his temples with both hands, looking lost.

"What did he say to her?" Smecker asked Connor.

Connor planted his feet, as if trying to anchor himself. "He asked her if she saw his name on Scuderi's list. She told him yes. And then…" Connor stopped, swallowing.

"And then what?"

Connor shook his head. "That was it."

No, it wasn't, Murphy knew immediately.

"I need to see her patient care report," Smecker said. "I have questions…several about the list, obviously. She might be more receptive if it comes from you."

_Oh, no she won't_, Murphy thought. The crease in Connor's forehead told him his brother knew it, too.

"She scared," Connor said. "She'd wipe the whole damn thing from her memory if she could. As it was, she only saw three out of thirteen pages. After the plaza shootout, she was the one who tried to bury it."

"I knew it!" Greenly said. "I knew it wasn't one of our boys who shot that computer up."

"Congratulations," Smecker told him.

"By the way," Connor added, tapping out a cigarette, "that missing pistol from the plaza-not missing any more."

"Wait. That was the Associate's weapon, right?" Smecker asked. "Where is it now?"

"I had her hold on to it, for protection. Serial numbers were filed off, I already checked."

"I'll still need it for prints-"

"He wore gloves, remember?"

"Then for ballistics tests-Christ, Connor! Why didn't you just lend her something else?"

"Jesus, man, she'd just gotten jumped in her own parking lot. I was bit concerned for her well-being, and I didn't happen to be carrying my personal arsenal. Besides, she doesn't—didn't—know _Connor_ would even own any guns."

His stammer was quick, barely even noticeable. But it might as well have been an air horn.

"_Doesn't_, or _didn't_?" Smecker asked.

Connor looked at Murphy, regret deepening the line between his brows. "Didn't. She figured it out this morning."

"Figured _it_ out? As in, your super secret identity?" Greenly dropped his head into his hands. "Jesus fucking Christ. This just keeps getting better."

Dolly watched them in silence.

Smecker propped his hands on his hips. "How much does she know?"

"I don't know. She knows Murphy and I are the Saints. I don't see how she could know about any of you, but…" Connor stepped on a bit of ash that had fallen to the carpet. "She left before I could talk to her about it."

"She left…from your place?"

Connor wiped all expression from his face.

"Let me guess," Smecker said, exchanging a look with Greenly. "She's not returning your calls."

"It's not that fucking shocking," Murphy said, stepping between the detectives. "If you want to ask her something, you best call her yourself."

Smecker began to pace. Suddenly he stopped, whipping out his phone and dialing. He stood with his back to them, one fist still on his hip.

"Miss Solomon, this is Agent Paul Smecker…thank you, I'm sorry, too…I was hoping you might be available to talk with me about it…I have a few more questions, about the wound specifically…a copy of the PCR would be extremely helpful…"

The wound? There wasn't a sound in the room besides Smecker's Agent Voice bouncing off the high ceiling. Dolly watched from his bench while the other three gathered around Smecker, openly listening in.

Leah's voice came through quieter than normal. They all inched closer. "_The report's been turned in to my supervisor_," she said. "_Once he's reviewed it, he'll expedite copies to the police homicide team, the M.E., and as you know, the FBI's lead investigator on the case."_

"Yes, but if I could get a copy now-"

"_He won't sit on it, Agent Smecker. This is important to all of us_."

"Yes, it is." Smecker took a breath. "And so I hope you'll understand why I'm asking for it now—my personal interest in the case has come to the attention of certain powers within Bureau oversight, whose reactionary measures are part of the reason cases like Tom's frequently go unresolved."

Silence. Murphy studied the agent's face, trying to figure out what the hell he was getting at.

Smecker bowed his head. "I've been taken off the case, Leah. By the time I have official clearance to see your report, it may be too late for me to make any use of it."

"What?" Greenly hissed. "When did this happen?"

"If you're off the case, then who's on it?" Murphy asked.

Smecker waved at them to shush. "If I could just ask you some questions…your apartment, an hour?"

Connor stepped in, practically dancing with the agent. "Not her apartment, it's not safe-"

Smecker put a hand over his ear, turning away from Connor. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" he asked her.

There was a long moment of silence. "_How…why would you ask that?"_

Connor's eyes closed in defeat.

_Because he heard it from the killer who saved you, _Murphy thought_. Because he's an FBI agent in league with wanted men._

The door that connected to the chapel opened and none other than Omar darted into the room, making a beeline for his Celtics backpack, halfway to it before realizing he had an audience. "What the hell...?"

"Just needed a place to talk," Murphy explained. "Sister Margaret doesn't like us interrupting Mass."

Omar eyed Connor's lit cigarette. "Yeah, well, Father Tim don't like our robes smelling like Camels."

"Or Virginia Slims?"

Omar scowled. "He's gonna think it was me."

Connor was still glued to Smecker's phone call with Leah, so Murphy went over and took the neglected smoke from his fingers, sucked the last of it, popped the incense thurible open again and crushed it inside.

"Gee, thanks," Omar said. "I'm totally off the hook now."

"Shouldn't you be in school?"

Omar gave him a dirty look and swung his backpack on. "I forgot my homework." He got to the door and turned around. "I'm back here for the service tonight. If I get in trouble, you guys are talking to my mom for me."

"Cute kid," Greenly said when he left.

"Aye. Adorable."

Smecker's call had ended. Connor looked like he'd taken another punch to the gut. "You know she's never going to meet with you now," he said quietly to the agent.

Smecker pushed his hair back with both hands. "I still have to try."

"What do you mean you've been taken off the case?" Greenly asked.

"Exactly what it sounds like," Smecker snapped. "That's what took so long in Bay Village this morning. Rookie punks. I convinced them I still have jurisdiction until they receive word directly from the new agent in charge."

"Who is the new agent in charge?"

Smecker gave a sour smile. "I don't know, but it'd be nice to find out before he or she gets around to calling on our favorite photographic witness. Things could spin out of control very quickly."

"Do things feel _in_ control to you now?" Dolly asked, voicing the very same thought on Murphy's mind.

The agent picked up his cup of coffee. "No, Dolly. They do not. The trails are less than twelve hours old, and they're cold already. We questioned everyone. No one else had contact with the Associate. No one but Mancini. To his men, the Associate was a just a rumor."

"You were at the hospital first, though." Murphy said. "With Duffy. Beckman would have started talking to people without you."

Smecker sipped his coffee. "Your point?"

"I'm just wondering why we're taking his word for it."

"We're walking a fine line with Beckman. He's smart-"

"So are you-"

"And yet I don't have the slightest clue how he could have guessed you were hitting the estate _last night_. You're positive no one could have overheard you and Connor, discussing plans in a bar, or-"

"Jesus," Connor said. "Give us some fucking credit."

Greenly scoffed. "Man, your fucking girlfriend knows you're the Saints."

"Not because we were chatting it up in a bar!"

"Fine. Who overheard you at home? Nosy neighbors, open windows…"

"No one. It couldn't have come from our side. Beckman must be so damn smart, he just guessed right."

"Right," Smecker said coldly. "That must be it."

"There's something we're not seeing," Greenly said. "We need to look at it from a different angle."

"Most people who break the law don't think they're choosing wrong over right," Connor said. Every face in the room turned in his direction. "Criminals and law-abiding citizens all make ethical decisions based on what they can live with."

Smecker's mouth curled into a smile. "I think we can all agree with that. Have you been talking to our profiler?"

"I've been talking to Duffy. He turned all philosophical on the phone the other night."

Christ, did Connor tell him anything anymore? "When was this?"

"Two nights ago," Connor said. "I thought he was onto something, about the Associate's motive. Then Leah said his name was on the list. I hate to say it, but afterward I wondered if he wasn't trying to tell me something."

"Like _what_?" Dolly demanded.

"I don't know. He talked about compromising, rationalizing, feeling justified." Connor rubbed his thumb over the cuts on his palm. "He was a complicated man."

"Not that complicated," Dolly said darkly. "You didn't know him that well."

Smecker began to pace again. When he reached the back wall, he pivoted slowly, arms tucked around him, one hand grasping his chin thoughtfully. "From what I understand," he said, pausing when he neared Connor, "Leah didn't know Duffy yet either, on the night she saw the list. Is that correct?"

Murphy had a strange urge to jump in front of his brother and answer for him. But another part of him needed to watch this unfold.

"That sounds right," Connor said.

"She would have remembered seeing his name, later," Smecker continued, "but she wouldn't have recognized it at the time. Yet, after seeing the list, she was panicked enough to pick up a gun, fire it three times into a murdered man's laptop, then dump the computer, steal the gun, and lie to the police."

"After being held hostage, with bullets flying around her, aye," Connor said. "Probably entitled to a moment of panic, don't you think?"

Smecker glanced at Murphy, as if to verify what he'd just heard in between Connor's words. Yes, Murphy had heard it, too. Connor's jump to defend her was just a second too quick, a degree too strong. Smecker settled himself onto the wall bench, crossing his legs like a shrink. "She saw another name, Connor. Whose?"

Connor rubbed a hand over his mouth. "I can't tell you that. I'm sorry."

Greenly's eyes bugged out.

Smecker looked irritated, but not exactly surprised.

Dolly looked about to come unglued. "What do you mean you _can't tell us_?"

Connor stared back at him, eyes hard. "You don't need the name in order to know what it means. The person was approached by the mob, asked for a favor, threatened with God knows what. Bottom line, they did what they were asked. When it was done, money was paid, but it was funneled into something worthwhile, a legitimate charity."

Smecker's mouth pulled tight. "No personal profit at all?" he asked finally.

"None," Connor said.

Greenly drummed his fingers against his lips. "But the money changed hands."

Dolly sat down, scratching his jaw. Then he stood up again, glaring at Connor on his way to another chair, farther away. He sat again. Murphy could only wonder what was going on in his head.

Smecker reached into his pocket and brought out his silver cigarette case. His gaze circled the tops of the walls warily.

"No smoke detectors, remember?" Murphy said. "Too many candles."

He waved off the cigarette Smecker offered, patting his own pocket and then remembering with a stab of pain how he had run out. Maybe it was penance, maybe he was just a masochist, but refusal didn't feel entirely optional.

"Do you see it as corruption?" Smecker asked. "Think about it, seriously. Is it something the two of you would take care of, if you didn't know her, if she wasn't connected to it?

Connor squeezed his temples, and Murphy wondered whether it was even possible for him to be objective.

"It's a gray area," Murphy said.

"No, it's not," Connor said. "We've said from the beginning, there are varying degrees of evil—I don't think this would even make the chart."

Dolly scoffed.

"Listen," Connor said, spinning to Dolly like he'd had enough. "Leah told me all this—the _only_ reason she told me—is so we'd try to understand both sides of Duffy's situation, whatever comes to light." He turned to Smecker. "She's not a drone. And if you can't see that, you're not much of a detective."

Smecker took a long drag, assessing Connor with a kind of studious curiosity.

"Whatever comes to light," Dolly muttered. "I can't believe I'm hearing this."

"You're hearing a question. Is it possible-" Murphy fought to choose the right words, and to keep his voice calm. "Is there any chance Duffy was talking to someone outside of this group?"

Dolly closed in, getting right in his face, though Murphy stood a good three inches taller.

"Let's just get this out in the open. You think Tom's dirty, because his name's on a fucking mobster's laundry list."

Connor stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Murphy. "Nobody's saying that, Dolly."

"Yeah. Nobody's saying shit."

"Including you," Murphy said. "You're his partner. You knew him best. You're telling me you're _completely_ in the dark?"

A muscle twitched in Dolly's jaw, and Murphy subconsciously shifted his weight, part of him wishing the detective would just start swinging.

Dolly's grip cracked the top of his coffee cup. "You self-righteous little prick."

Greenly moved, coming into his friend's line of sight as if trying not to spook him. "Dolly."

Murphy said nothing, just held his coffee out to the side, for Connor to take.

Dolly's own coffee sloshed up the insides of his cup, his voice rising a decibel. "Duffy thought of this—" he gestured roughly to Murphy and Connor, "—helping the two of you-as the most important thing he'd ever done. We all did."

Murphy didn't miss the past tense. Connor started to speak, but Dolly cut him off.

"He didn't climb up to that rooftop for his family, or for his partner, or because he was following Smecker's orders. He went for you. He _died_ for _you_." Dolly poked two fingers hard against Murphy's chest. Hot coffee spilled over his hand and onto Murphy's boots. "Fuck." He barreled between them to the wastebasket, ramming into Murphy's hurt arm.

Murphy gritted his teeth, swallowing a curse, and something else that didn't go down easy.

Connor pushed both hands through his hair.

"Dolly," Greenly said, straightening to his full height. "He was the best cop I ever knew."

Dolly snatched a robe off its hanger and wiped the dripping coffee from his hands.

"I fucking mean that," Greenly said. "Nothing anybody says is going to change that. But if you know something, please…" He lifted his eyes to the ceiling for a long moment. "Please, man, don't make me hear about it on the fucking news."

"You won't hear it on the news," Dolly said. "But…I don't want you thinking of him as some goddamn criminal, either."

Dolly seemed unable to look at Greenly, and so his gaze combed the floor, landing on Murphy's wet shoes. "It happened last fall," he said, walking over to hand Murphy the robe. It was hardly the worst mess his boots had ever suffered, but Murphy took the cloth and swiped it over the leather.

Dolly stalked away to stare at the stained glass. There was no other movement in the room.

"Tom's daughter had just started at Suffolk," he began, "which isn't cheap. He was working overtime whenever he could. Christie was doing her part, going to class, keeping her grades up, making friends. One night she went to a party with some new friends, made some bad decisions, tried something she should have stayed far away from…"

"That accident," Greenly said, remembering.

Dolly nodded. "Tom and I were on the same shift that night, the first car to respond. I was there when it went down. Tom had to make a choice. He gave Christie another chance." Dolly shoved his hands in his trench coat pockets. "Doing that meant giving someone else a second chance, too, a kid who turned out to be Yakavetta's favorite nephew."

Smecker steepled his fingers. Dolly met his eyes for a moment, his shoulders lifting almost imperceptively.

"Christie's car was totaled; she was pretty shaken up, but basically okay. Tom made her swear she'd never hang out with those kids again. Far as I know, she hasn't. The nephew's the one who really made out, since another DUI would have meant mandatory jail time." He shook his head in disgust.

No one spoke. The edge of the cliff was coming, and Dolly's words came slower the closer he drew to it.

"Two days later," Dolly said, "a brand new Lexus shows up in front of Duffy's house, keys in the ignition."

Smecker uncrossed his legs, sitting forward. "Tell me he didn't keep it."

Duffy looked pained. "He took the keys out, so it wouldn't be stolen, but for three weeks it sat there. Christie started taking the T to get to school. Carol was finally going to confront the neighbor about the parking space." He rocked back on his heels, eyeing the coffee stain still on the carpet. "I was the one who suggested he trade it in."

Smecker sucked in a slow breath.

"So he did. He bought a used Subaru, and sent the rest to Suffolk, for spring semester tuition. Told Carol it was from all the overtime. Christie works part-time now, pays for her own gas, treats the car like gold."

Smecker's face was like stone. "Was there ever direct contact with Yakavetta?"

"There was a note," Dolly said. "A paper tag on the keys, like they use at the dealerships. It said, 'Children are our future.'" He gave a punch-drunk smile. "It wasn't signed, but we knew."

He pulled a tissue from the travel pack Sister Margaret had given him. He blew his nose, then turned his reddened eyes on Murphy and Connor. "He never would have betrayed you," he said. "Never."

Murphy nodded, because it was all he could do.

Smecker rose and took a turn contemplating the stained glass. Greenly walked over to a trash bin in the corner and threw his coffee cup away.

Dolly sat down on the table again, this time facing away from them.

Connor handed Murphy the hanger for the robe. Murphy returned it to the rack.

He'd felt something _transcendent_ on that roof, the same thing he'd felt in the courtroom, and in that leaky holding cell. Now he just felt hollow. They'd cut Duffy off, retracted faith in their friend like a rug yanked from underfoot. Like it had to be earned and proven. Like it was conditional.

Duffy was a good cop, a good man. A father who loved his little girl.

Smecker took the silver cigarette case out again. Murphy walked over and straight up held out his hand for one. Thank God Smecker offered him a light as well, because even if his left arm wasn't injured, his good hand shook so badly he could barely keep the cigarette between his fingers.

"My partner is lying in a morgue," Dolly said quietly, "surrounded on every damn side by men who spent their worthless lives hurting and stealing and killing." He stood up, turning around to face them. "I want answers. I want that fucking Associate. And I want Beckman's anonymous fucking source, alone in a room without a two-sided mirror." He looked at Smecker. "I don't care what we have to do."

"You know," Greenly said, "one of Mancini's guards thought he saw people in the street just before that SUV with the bodies showed up. Beckman barely asked him about it – maybe because he already knew who it was."

"I suppose it's possible," Smecker said. "That would have been near Beckman's position. And the timing was right for a confrontation."

"We had cameras out there," Greenly said, starting to get excited. "Both directions. If we take a look at the footage..."

"It's on Beckman's laptop," Dolly said. "He'll never give you access so you can ID his source."

"Well, then, all we have is what we heard over the radio: the source is educated, doesn't care about fucking with a cop-and is either really ballsy or just plain reckless. That's like ninety percent of this city."

"Why would Beckman and his source have had a confrontation?" Connor asked.

"Aye, what exactly did you hear on the radio?" Murphy asked, realizing he was dreading the answer. Seamus had been positive about what he saw in the road.

"Beckman's source made an ass of him," Greenly said. "Had patrols pull over drivers and check for bogus identities."

"How'd you know they were bogus?" Connor asked.

Greenly snorted. "Jackson Pollock, Andy Warhol, Ed Degas, Pablo Picasso, Sal-"

"Artists?" Connor asked. His quick glance reflected a fraction of what was going on inside of Murphy.

"World-renowned," Smecker said, sounding both amused and bitter as he re-tied his tie. "Familiarized, shortened into nicknames, so we didn't catch on right away. But when viewed as a whole-obvious enough to raise a big question mark about his source's loyalty."

"Who's Sal?" Dolly asked.

"Salvador Dali," Greenly said, putting the stress on the wrong syllable.

"Spanish surrealist." The freight train in Murphy's head was pounding so hard he wasn't sure he'd said it aloud. "Melting clocks."

"Oh, yeah."

Connor's eyes narrowed at Murphy. He glanced at the cops but said nothing.

"Let me talk to Tinkerman," Smecker said. "Those digital video files will be huge, too much to process on a laptop. Beckman will upload them to the server, if he hasn't already. If there's a shot of his source on that video, Tinkerman can find it."

"Don't keep us in the dark," Connor said.

Smecker frowned. "Connor-"

"You'll know when we know," Greenly said, looking straight at Smecker. "Lying low doesn't mean sticking their heads in the sand. They deserve to know who's ratting them out."

"As long as we're clear," Dolly said darkly, "I don't want anyone else getting a piece of that source before I do."

* * *

"I thought you only went to Annie's lecture classes to sit in the back row and put your hand up her skirt," Connor said as they got back in the car.

"I did."

Traffic had thinned out in the past hour, but compared to Murphy's pulse it felt like a parking lot.

Connor rubbed a hand over his mouth. "You really think it's her, don't you?"

Murphy didn't answer. There was nothing else he _could_ think, and he'd tried. Lord, had he tried.

"Listen," Connor said. "I know I've given you a hard time about Annie. I always liked her-"

Murphy gave a hard laugh.

"Believe it or not, I did. I just didn't like you with her. I didn't like the way you…drifted away. I don't think I understood until now."

"Now that you've fucked shit up with Leah?"

Murphy took a turn that made Connor brace himself against the door.

"Fine," Connor said. "You want to walk in there full of piss and thunder, you go right ahead. See how far it gets you. I've already burned my bridges with her, might as well burn yours too. If she really is Beckman's source, he'll be the first one she calls."

"I have a plan."

"Oh, good. Maybe you could fill me in."

"We don't leave until we have answers."

"Great plan."

Murphy made the final turn, steeling himself as the shop came into view. "Just keep Jake out my way."

.

* * *

_*So, the rest of the Author's Note is that I felt so bad making you guys wait so long, that I didn't run this by any betas. SO, please be gentle and PM to let me know if you noticed any glaring errors I should correct. In the meantime, I am off to script Murphy's piss and thunder. (Oh, I feel for Annie right now...)_


	48. Shattered

_*Hi guys, please see the Author's Note at the end of the chapter for something I need your opinion on. :)_

* * *

**[Chapter 48: Shattered]**

One-Eyed Jake's was closed for business, but Annie's car was at the curb. Murphy parked the LTD in front of it, in the spot Beckman's BMW had left warm for him.

Connor stopped him before he got out. "We might only have one chance at this. If she's working against us, and you go in there demanding answers-"

"I know how to talk to her without spookin' her, Con."

"I'm not worried she'll get spooked. She wants answers, too. I think she'll try to play you."

Murphy thought about it. Is that what she'd been doing at his apartment? He thought about Seamus seeing her at the estate. He thought about Smecker and Duffy, so fed up after hearing those artists' names that they'd left the sting, and ended up in Bay Village saving his life. Annie couldn't have known that that's what would happen. She'd expected to catch him at Mancini's front gate, even after he'd set her straight about the Saints and Rocco. Working against them now was personal. A conscious choice, not a misunderstanding of motives.

Yeah, she would try to play him. She would try.

He let Connor knock, and lingered at the curb to view the windows upstairs. The butcher paper on the far right window pulled back an inch. The dark sliver widened, and then the paper fell back into place. It was a good three or four minutes before Annie appeared downstairs with tousled hair and rolled up jeans, bare feet, and a band-aid on her chin.

"Hey." She stepped outside, rubbing at yesterday's make-up, still smudged around her eyes.

Murphy gave her a kiss on the cheek, letting his hand linger on her jaw. "Rough night?" he asked.

She blinked up at him in the sunlight. "Um. Late night," she said, lifting her hand to touch the bandaid. "Jake had this big back piece he was finishing…"

_And it starts._

The lights were off in the private workrooms, and except for the squeak of Murphy's and Connor's boots on the tile, the shop was quiet.

"Where is the old man?" Murphy asked.

"He's with—he's not in yet." She looked flustered and he wondered what she was about to say. "His first client's not until two."

Connor peeked behind Jake's curtain. "You're mighty dedicated, coming in half a day early."

"She lives here," Murphy said, resisting an eye roll. Leave it to Connor to get suspicious for all the wrong reasons, when there were plenty of right reasons to choose from.

"Here?"

"Upstairs," she said with an arm wave. "Surprised you didn't tell him."

Murphy wasn't sure why he hadn't, so he didn't bother trying to explain. He pulled out her phone and got a sweet smile in return. Very convincing.

"Oh, thank God. I need to attach this thing with a leash."

"Would you? Because I'm going to start charging a fee."

The smile got bigger. She looked like she might kiss him. He took a step back, but it wasn't easy.

"Thank you, really," she said. "You're an angel."

Some would say saint.

Murphy had a sudden urge for a cigarette, and remembered the lipstick in his pocket. "Brought you this, too," he said. "Must have fallen out of your purse the other day."

Their eyes locked, and for a brief moment, she was the same girl he'd had on the kitchen table. Then she glanced at the lipstick, and her expression darkened, and that girl was gone.

"It's not mine."

Connor stood up slowly. "It has to be," he said.

Murphy held it out, for her to take a closer look. She read the color name on the end, then opened it and made a face.

"It's really not yours?"

"I think the real question here is, when did you start bringing home girls who wear _Mild Mauve_?"

"You're the only one I've brought home."

"Oh."

He hadn't really meant to say it, but it seemed effective, by the way she didn't look at him as she set the lipstick on the counter. She walked over to a small tub of stainless steel tools soaking in a green liquid.

Connor shook his head to one side, urging him to close the distance. Subtle as a steamroller.

"So, Seamus found my phone?" she asked.

"Aye."

"He says hello," Connor added.

"Did you see him today?"

"No."

"Yesterday?" Her voice was light. Connor's eyes flicked to Murphy.

"I'm just curious," she said. Another smile. Less convincing.

Murphy found himself scanning the street for cop cars and BMWs. "You're sounding like a detective again, Ann. Thought you were done with that."

She pulled on latex gloves, snapping the wrists. Connor pulled the door closed.

She turned at the sound of the lock, smile long gone. "I'm allowed to be curious," she said. "That night I lost my phone-"

"That night you stabbed Murphy," Connor said, ever helpful.

"_Before_ he attacked me, and I defended myself…" She fished a tube out of the green liquid and swirled it around. "Leah and I heard gunshots inside Seamus's pub. And then last night…"

"Last night, here in the shop?" Murphy asked.

She bit her lip. He hoped it hurt.

There was a faint rattle, like the wind shaking a door.

"Murphy, you said you knew them." She blotted a stainless steel grip carefully on a towel. "That you _knew_ the Saints, not that-"

The sound came again, loud enough that they all stopped and listened. Connor went over and checked the hallway. The sound stopped.

Annie raised her eyes to Murphy. There was hurt there, and accusation.

"I'm not sure what you're expecting me to say here, Annie."

"Nothing. Forget it." She went back to sorting the tools, a little more violently. "Tell Seamus thanks for my phone, thanks for taking time out of his busy delivery schedule."

A chill ran up Murphy's neck.

"_Ella lo vio_," Connor said.

A tool slipped from Annie's hand back into the container, splashing green suds on her face. "Yes," she said, reached for a paper towel, "_I saw him_. And if you know what that means, then…"

"Christ, Connor. You know she had Spanish in high school."

"Fuck. Sorry."

"Aye, Annie, we know what it means." Murphy said. "You're in way the fuck over your head." She kept drying her face. Could have soaked up a swimming pool by now. "You were there. Seamus was there. Who else knows?"

"_Who else knows?_ How about, how the hell are you involved with all this? With three dead bodies! Delivered to a mob boss's house in _wooden crates_!"

Connor blew out a sigh. "Jesus Christ. What would you want, plastic bags?"

"Oh, my God." She started grabbing things at random, straightening up the counter, looking greener than the disinfectant.

Murphy put a firm hand on her arm. "I said, who else knows?"

"No one." Her voice broke.

"Except Beckman, right?"

Her face colored, the red spreading from her neck to the roots of her hair. Murphy watched it, knowing what it meant, trying not to react. She could lie, but she couldn't control this. It was naked honesty—confirmation of every fear in his heart, and every suspicion in his mind.

She shook him off. "Beckman doesn't know about Seamus."

"Then tell me why he was here last night."

Her eyes widened.

Of course Beckman knew. She'd taken the man up to her room, for God's sake. Murphy closed his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to stop picturing it and _think_. If she had told him Seamus was the one who'd left the bodies, why hadn't Beckman arrested him already? They must be waiting until she could connect them all.

"How can you ask me that," she whispered, "when you're not telling me _anything_?" She loaded the autoclave and punched some buttons. He ignored her blinking, the lower lip quivering, the dramatic tear. And he waited.

She closed her eyes and laid her palms flat in front of her, feeling the vibrations as the machine started its cycle. "You don't believe me. So I guess I'll have to show you." Wiping her eyes quickly, she disappeared down the hall.

Connor managed not to speak for a whole five seconds.

"This isn't going quite as we planned," he said. "You know, if we'd had a plan."

Murphy took a breath. He could hear her walking around upstairs.

Connor picked up the lipstick. "Now this one bothers me a bit," he said. "We know we can't trust a word she's been sayin. But, of all things, why would she lie about her fucking make-up?"

There was a loud crash from the back of the shop.

"The fuck?"

Male voices, footsteps. Murphy listened hard, his eyes locking with Connor's. Not Jake or Zeke. He reached for his gun.

Damn. No gun.

* * *

Annie hurried up the stairs and across the warm loft, to the low stack of boxes by the futon. Her sketch book and pencil lay there, silent and still. Innocuous.

_If you do this, there's no going back._

She flipped through it quickly, before she could change her mind. She'd thought she'd stuck the drawing back in, but there was only the shredded strip of paper where the page had been ripped from its spiral binding.

Suddenly, something crashed downstairs, shaking the walls and the floor beneath her feet. She flew to the staircase, hearing voices, shouting-

Gunshots.

Then silence. She crouched by the wall, trying not to move and creak the floor. Damn Murphy and Connor and the problems they dragged behind them like honeymooners' tin cans.

A harsh voice from below carried up the stairs through the door that she'd left open on her way up. "Where is she? The brunette."

Her heart stopped beating for a full second.

_Me?_

_This can't be happening. _They were mafia guys. Had to be. She'd told Beckman how she'd been spotted in his car! But then he'd gotten that phone call, and then he'd gotten so impatient, saying just to call if there was any trouble. Well, this was trouble! And all the phones were downstairs.

She heard the screech of a workroom curtain being shoved aside. Heavy footsteps. Another curtain screech.

"There's no girl here," Murphy said loudly. "Think you got the wrong shop." Her heart did a little flip-flop. He was telling her to run, but where could she go? She could sprint down the stairs and try to out-run their bullets. She could break a window, and then hopefully not her ankles as she fell to the sidewalk. Give them some easy target practice while she dangled in front of the plate glass.

"There's no one else in these rooms," a different voice said. "She's not here."

"You fucking moron. _She's here_," the first voice said. "She ain't left. You two friends of hers? Why don't you save yourselves some trouble, and just tell us where she is? We ain't going to hurt her. Just wanna talk."

"About what?" Murphy said.

"What?"

"What do you want to talk about?"

"None of your fucking business—unless…Hey, you're Irish, ain't you?"

"Aussie," Murphy corrected, slipping into a perfect Australian accent. "Fucking Americans. Can't tell the difference for shit."

There was a moment's pause, while Annie imagined the gun-wielding asshole was trying to figure out who he was dealing with. She didn't blame him. She was having a bit of trouble herself.

"This is where he brought the girl-"

"Then why don't you go talk to him?"

"Who?"

"The guy…who brought…her here. This mysterious brunette."

"Because she's the one with all the interesting answers, smart ass. Take them to the back, out of this fucking fishbowl."

A scuffle of footsteps from the front of the shop. She held her breath. Then, right as they passed the door to the stairs, a struggle. Rapid, foreign words that she couldn't catch.

"On your feet!" the second voice said, more strained than before. "We're going to find the bitch, with or without you. Only question is, how much pain do you want to be in-" the office door slammed shut.

She squeezed her eyes shut with relief—and gratefulness—and guilt. Murphy and Connor were buying her time, but it wasn't much. As soon as one of them noticed the stairs, they'd find her. She'd be trapped. She had to go now, before they had her cornered.

Her body wouldn't move. Her insides screamed at her to stay put, to hide, to wait.

Wait until what? Until they tortured Murphy and Connor into giving her up? Even if the guys tried to hold out, what then? _You know where these men came from. You know they won't leave loose ends. _Her mind said the words, but the thought was too awful to comprehend: _The guys are dead either way. _

Clutching the railing with shaky fingertips, she tiptoed down, stair by stair, moving as fast as she dared to slip behind the open door. Jake kept a baseball bat in his workroom. If she could just get there without being noticed…

Through the crack, she could see the office door was still shut. She wiped the sweat from her bare feet onto the legs of her jeans, then slipped around the door and sprinted across the hall. Her fingers had barely brushed Jake's curtain when a thick hand caught her wrist. A scream escaped her, as he yanked and her momentum spun them face to face. He had a deep purple bruise on his throat that matched his shirt. A scabby upper lip curled back with a smile, almost touching the gold ring that connected his ugly nostrils.

He was like a recurring nightmare. The mafia soldier, the one who'd seen her in Beckman's car last night, must have been lurking in the lobby, keeping watch. _Of course, you idiot. You think mobsters don't know to keep a lookout?_

"There you are, little birdie," he sneered, grabbing her other arm and slamming her onto the counter. "I knew you didn't fly away."

Down the hall, a door opened.

"Nando, I got her!" Ring-Nose called, laughing to himself, sending shocks of pain through her ribs with each chuckle. "Been singing about the Saints, little birdie?" Something hard pressed against her skull, and she went very, very still. "Now you're going to sing for me."

There was a crash, thuds against the wall, angry shouts. The crack of a gunshot, a cry of pain. Fear clamped down on her heart.

Footsteps in the hallway. She couldn't see; her head was pinned by the barrel of his gun in the other direction. She stared at the autoclave dials, trying to listen for the squeak of MacManus rubber boot soles over the pounding of her heart.

"Shit." Ring-Nose shifted, jerking her up in front of him so hard she had to grab the counter not to fall over. "I knew you Micks would be trouble." His grip was painful, his rank breath close on the back of her neck—six feet of bull-faced coward crouching behind her.

Connor and Murphy stood framed in the hallway. Each brother held a gun to the oversized ears of the thug in front of them. Murphy's cheek was scraped, his bottom lip cut and bleeding. His eyes met hers for an instant, and she almost cried. In a flash, his pistol was pointed her direction. His voice was cool as night: "She makes a pretty small shield, motherfucker. Don't think I can shoot around her?"

The tiniest of movements caught her attention: behind the mobster's back, Connor glanced very slightly toward his brother, and Murphy jerked his head a centimeter to the side. _No, Con. I got this._

She felt her eyes go wide. _Are you crazy? It's not a damn sniper rifle! _

She scanned the counter beside her, cursing her stupid nervous cleaning. There was nothing within reach, not even a ballpoint pen. Anything remotely weapon-like was cooking in the autoclave.

It hummed and rattled behind her, next to Ring-Nose. Opening it mid-cycle would be like a steam explosion to anyone in a five foot radius.

Her hand was already resting on the counter. She could probably reach it from here. The latch had a safety lock, but it could be opened with only one hand.

"Go ahead," Ring-Nose said. "Take your best shot, _mate_. I'll take mine." The gun left her skull.

She stuck her hand out behind her, stretching blindly toward the sound, and by some kind of divine grace her fingers found the latch. The machine's door blew open with a terrible hiss, cracking against her wrist bone. She yanked her arm back, wrenching against the grip on her neck to duck her face from the scalding steam. Ring-Nose yelped-

_Bang! _

She was falling backwards, dragged down by the heavy hand on her shoulder. She landed on top of him, then rolled off onto the cold floor.

Murphy moved past her in a blur, saying something, crouching next to the fallen man, then running back down the hall. Connor and the other man were gone.

She looked over at Ring-Nose. There was a bloody hole where his right eye had been, and a growing pool of blood under what was left of his head. Light played over the surface of the blood in diffused sparkles, like on a swimming pool. She looked up, at the source of the light. In the plate glass, a monstrous spider web of cracks shot out in every direction from a single pea-sized hole, just off-center in the painted logo.

In the distance, tires squealed. A door slammed-the spider web grew. More gunshots. Or maybe they were just in her head.

Strong hands gripped her arms, shaking her. Murphy.

"Annie. I said, are you hurt?"

He took her hand and turned it over, examining the red streaks on her fingers and wrist.

"You shot Jake's window."

He smiled, making his cut lip start to bleed again.

"You could have warned me you were going pop that steam cooker open," he said, helping her up.

"I thought you were going to try to shoot around me!"

"I was."

His blue eyes were bright, but she could tell he was serious.

"You're insane."

"You're welcome." He gave her fingers a squeeze.

She wanted to thank him properly. She wanted plant a kiss on those beautiful, bleeding lips. She stole a glance at Connor.

He was setting something on Ring-Nose's face. She watched as his mouth moved with almost no sound.

Praying_. _

She caught Murphy watching her, and her heart nearly sprang from her chest.

He let go of her hand. "All right. Now you know."

Finished, Connor rose to his feet. "He came for you, Annie," he said. "Why don't you tell us what that was all about?" Something hard snapped beneath his boot, and he picked it up, frowning.

Annie said nothing. All the suspicion and the questions and lies…the truth was laid bare now, hers and theirs, and she didn't know where to start.

"Come on," Murphy said. "We'll figure this out somewhere else."

"Can I talk to you a minute?" Connor asked.

"Con, we have to go."

"This can't wait."

Murphy turned to Annie. "Go upstairs and grab whatever stuff you need."

"I can't leave." She gestured helplessly to Ring-Nose, and to the cracked window. "When Jake comes-"

"When _Nando_ comes back with more guns, you need to be gone. Jake's going to find a dead, bloody mess in his lobby. Nothing you can do about that now. He'll call the cops, he'll be fine."

She wanted to argue, but Connor was staring at her so hard, it brought back their whole jolly conversation before the attack.

Murphy grasped her by the shoulders, reminding her how completely their situation had changed. "Remember your goddamn phone this time, and you can give Jake a heads-up from the road, okay?"

"Okay."

"I'll be right back," Murphy said. They disappeared down the hall.

* * *

Murphy followed Connor out into the alley.

"_Qu'est-ce pour vous?_" Connor asked, after a quick glance back inside the shop. Their visitors had demolished the latch and doorjamb, but Connor made sure the door was shut as firmly as possible.

The only other soul around in the narrow alley was arguably in Jake's Harley motorcycle, parked across from the dumpster. Yet Connor was whispering in French. Not good.

"What is it?" Murphy asked.

Connor put a finger to his lips, then opened his hand. He was holding the lipstick tube, which was cracked now from top to bottom. He took off the cap and pried out the inner part that held the actual make-up. It seemed shorter than it should be, like it had almost run out, except that the angled tip of the color looked brand-new.

Connor tilted the bottom half of the canister toward him. "_Underneath_," he said quietly, this time in Russian.

The language switch was enough to make Murphy keep his questions to himself and just look. What he saw changed everything.

…

* * *

_********__**Author's Note**: __Okay. Reader Poll: Do you prefer a mini-chapter post (1000 words, maybe) that you get really soon, or a full length chapter post that won't be ready for 2-3 weeks? Let your voice be heard! I am always listening...and writing. When RL doesn't get in the way..._


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